


Landslide

by Graysworks



Series: Fake Marriage AU [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Acxa will fight anyone that fucks with the Paladins, Dudes Being Bros, Fake Married AU, Fluff, Heavy Plot, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, More worldbuilding, Mutual Pining, b...bath sharing, bed sharing, continuation of Wildfire aka trainwreck, kolivan/lotor if you squint, mostly platonic tho, one ptsd scene (non graphic), so much crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 01:39:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19163185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graysworks/pseuds/Graysworks
Summary: After successfully convincing two alien kingdoms of their (fake) marriage, Shiro and Keith find the alliance in jeopardy once again after a visit from an old frenemy...~ False marriages aside- the longer they stay, the higher the risk of fighting, the likelier that someone gets benched. Shiro’s hands come up. He moves hair from Keith’s neck, checks the nearly invisible stitches at his jaw, the bruises under his knuckles, touch soft, barely there at all- and then he turns Keith from the rail, and something in his eyes sparks when his hands settle on either side of Keith’s head.“I don’t know,” he says, quiet, “but I’m here for you, Keith.” Soft intensity colors his voice, and Keith’s memory winds back to a time that he thought he’d never hear it again. He grasps Shiro’s arms.“Promise.”Shiro leans his head against Keith’s, never breaking eye contact. “I promise.”





	Landslide

**Author's Note:**

> So to understand most of the plot (which is a lot) going on in this fic, you're gonna want to go back and read Wildfire, which I'm sorry about because that one is literally a year old at this point and kind of... a completely different style?? Big whoops but yeah, it's got more of the same stuff, just with less how-you-say _finesse_
> 
> *also just for clarification, in this AU, Shiro wasn't cloned so he just escaped from the Galra again after season two and Naxzela happened because Haggar managed to mess with his head via arm, but they fixed it. For simplicity's sake, everything major from s1-s4 has still happened.
> 
> **also also for clarification, Lotor DIDN'T kill Zarkon yet, but he was on the throne until Zarkon woke up, and now he's kind of a freedom-fighter-outlaw because that's rad
> 
> ***also also also Krolia exists in this AU, but she's not exactly mentioned because the first fic was written before her reveal, so not sure if that's super important but just fyi I love her, the character list for this fic had just gone haywire
> 
> ****I wrote in some personal headcanons about Kolivan but basically this is under the assumption that he worked for the Empire before the-rift-incident and was like?? a guard???? idk??????? just cause
> 
> last ps. there's a more graphic fight scene toward the end with like blood and detail so just be aware

The world comes for them instead.

Two consecutive, close-together explosions shake the ground, interrupt sheepish glances as they draw back and shatter illusions of safety. Keith’s eyes widen and shift; the shockwave whips his hair to the right in almost slow motion, irony scorches Shiro, and then the wall to their left goes flying.

Shiro hits the ground at a roll. A deafening ring floods his ears, and in the time that it takes to stop sliding over dead leaves, he realizes that Keith had shoved him.

He comes to a stop at the base of a splintering pine. The gardens catch fire and smoke floods underbrush, the spaces between chunks of clay and cobblestone strewn over the ground from the wall, Keith’s wracking lungs. He scrabbles at dirt for his dagger. Shiro fumbles to rise and swears when black fuzzes over his vision at increments; it drags labored breath from his lungs, but nothing’s broken and frustration simmers under his skin as he staggers toward the walkway where the team sprints in, bayards up, then powers his arm and turns to the fight.

Within minutes, over half of the party is down or well on their way to it. Shiro must kick back a dozen masked figures by the time the Paladins take out some of the flightier antagonists. A handful of the guard takes off after the ones that flee and leave the team in a rush to regroup once the area clears, where they skid to halts in clumps and stumble over panicked questions of _what exactly just happened._

“Not sure,” Shiro pants. He rakes a hand through his hair, and it comes away red. “I thought we’d driven the last of these guys off.”

“Well- clearly _not_ ,” Lance complains, and thunks the stray branch he’d picked up to whack the perpetrators with into the dirt, scowling. “One party. _One_ party without being attacked by bloodthirsty extremists, is that too much to ask?”

Pidge answers to no one in particular, “I think it must’ve been one of the groups from the fringes of the eastern kingdom- probably B3 after news broke that we wiped the floor with their allies,” and types something into her holo-watch at speeds that dizzy Shiro. “I’m guessing that now they’re out for blood unless- wait a minute.” She pauses, scrunches her nose and scrolls back up the graph. “Huh. Did anyone see a breach in the overhead perimeter before the party started?”

“I think we were all a little busy with being _done_ keeping track of these crazies,” Keith answers, apologetic.

When the rest of the team nods their agreement, Pidge squints at the blue display over her wrist and makes a puzzled noise. “Still, this is strange. I’m detecting traces of fuel that don’t match up with their explosives around the garden. If somebody got inside before we did and set off a kill command, I guess that could explain the alien readings, but- this area is so unprotected, and that group was way too small to do any damage.”

“Funky,” Matt comments, out of breath, leaning on his staff, “but why would anyone bait their own squad into a death trap? People desert regularly around the holidays, or something?”

Shiro’s eyes go to the red spotting Keith’s sleeves and says, “well, whatever the case, that was a close call. We’d better buckle down for the next few days in case they come back for round two.”

Hunk groans. “And our luck was _just_ starting to look up- you know, they really had me fooled with that banquet cuisine, but I’m starting to think the Jerekovians just plan to trap us here until the end of time. Maybe they have, like, some secret dark past with the Alteans, and as soon as we sign the right paper-” he cups his palms around air and flicks them outward with a pshew! sound. “Boom, no more Coalition.”

“Aw, would you relax!” Lance throws an arm around his shoulders. “So we’ve hit a few speedbumps, what’s one more?”

“Not like we haven’t dealt with worse,” Keith adds, and Hunk groans, but offers no more protests.

Pidge opens a new tab on her holo, blue. “It...  _would_ reflect well on the Marmora if they dispatched a squadron or two to stay,” she says, still typing. “And the Coalition as a whole can always use the opportunity to leave a good impression on new members, especially the ones with internal damage that can’t be fixed overnight, which... might be kinda relevant now that there’s a hole in the Jerekovian’s palace wall.” She closes the holo and offers an apologetic smile, addressing Shiro and Keith. “Sorry guys. Looks like you’ll have to keep up the act for another couple of weeks.”

Shiro’s face heats. Keith tips his head and gives a little shrug. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

Matt snorts, apparently unimpressed. “Well if it’s any consolation, I’m about a hundred and ten percent sure Kolivan’s gonna seize the Coalition footage of last night and banish them back to their ships. Guy’s still way too uptight about the whole secrecy thing.”

“Like he said,” Shiro coughs, and squeezes Keith’s shoulder, fairly certain he’s gone the color between sunburn and allergic reaction- Keith’s mouth pulls up at the edges, though, and Shiro can’t help but mirror the motion. “We’ve dealt with worse.”

Less than an hour later, he starts to think that he’d spoken too soon.

A quick scan of the palace perimeter brings them past the garden wall to the base of the mountain, where a sleek Galran ship emits steam that mingles with night fog and smoke from the wreckage. Another four minutes of searching turns up the owners- and solves Pidge’s fuel emissions mystery.

Lotor comes not as the high class rebel tactician he usually is these days, but as a soldier. Shiro can see it on him; the dustiness and dark of his armor, the wear of his weapons when he submits them to the palace guard for evaluation, the careless way his hair’s been tied and knotted down his back like an afterthought. How he holds himself, something thought to be unbroken since attempting to assume the throne only to be cast down again after his father’s revival, is suffering. _He’s_ suffering. Even Allura’s suspicious prodding yields no joy from his answers.

“How long has he been like this?” Shiro asks Narti, because it’s a puzzle and she’s the blunt one, always. Her fingers count off- three. Days, weeks?

Acxa falls into step beside them and turns her blade over in her hands. “We got a lead on this substance he’s been tracking for years, but the thing is- that was three months ago. We didn’t even know Voltron was on this planet until he saw the news about... well, you.” Her voice changes there, gains some inflection Shiro couldn’t name, but her eyes narrow when she glances at the grip he has on Keith’s shoulder. He’s discussing something low and hurried with Pidge as they walk, oblivious.

Zethrid makes a semi-snorting noise. “Can’t say I blame them, Acxa. We’ve all heard about the Champion’s era, it’s no wonder the kingdoms were ready to start another war over who got him.” She pauses, looks Shiro over like she’s sizing him up, and decides, “still think I could beat you, though. Champion or not, you humans are all so _small_.” He laughs, unsurprised somehow. She slaps his back hard enough that he stumbles, still chuckling, and Acxa rolls her eyes.

“Keep it together, kids,” she mutters- until Ezor tackles her with an arm around the neck. “Hey! We’re working, would you just- I am _seriously_ thinking about sharing your latest invisibility stunt with Lotor-”

Shiro raises an eyebrow at Narti. She waves a hand, like, _don’t ask_ , so he pulls his mouth flat and accepts it.

Lotor keeps quiet until they settle into the war room.

“This substance could turn the tide of the war,” he tells the homeland council, Allura and the team once they’ve all trudged in. “It’s taken us decades to trace the point of origin here, on Jerekov, but once implanted it became clear that we were in over our heads. The Eastern extremists, your B3 group, have developed some form of quintessence with an _astonishingly_ strong trace- one that can be tracked from several galaxies away without a problem.” He pauses, glances around the table, and continues, “now, someone has been moving chemicals across Jerekov for three months, and I’m guessing none of us would rather be around when they finally put it to use. If anyone is to be kept away from it, it is my father’s army.”

One of the Queens sits forward and asks, “I’d like to know what exactly this substance is used as. Ion fuel? Chemical warfare? Bomb?”

Lotor sets his shoulders back. “I’m afraid it’s something more personal to your planet’s history.” His hand slips from the table map. “A deceit inhibitor.”

The room goes dead. Kolivan sits back in his chair, glances at Allura, and Shiro watches the wheels turn, quickly- she’s taken a lot of obstacles thrown her way since forming their first alliance, but this may be the most unexpected. Her voice goes tight. “That is- a concerning threat to the Coalition. I’m afraid that our focus on promoting peace and _unity_ wouldn’t have revealed as such before we left the planet, but I assume it wouldn’t have been much preferred for our gaze to fall suspicious and un-trusting either.” With a pointed look toward Lotor, both Queens sniff and some of the Council mutter in agreement. Shiro frowns. “Lotor should have come to the Coalition with this in the first place, not taken matters into his own hands.”

“Yeah,” Matt snorts, and folds up his staff, “not like any of us want a repeat of Naxzela.”

The incitement of fear, or the horror of the comparison -whichever matters more to the Jerekovians- sets the room alight with arguing. Acxa snaps at Lance for suggesting they all take a breather, murderous, and Ezor struggles to hold Zethrid back once Pidge, Hunk and a few others begin defending Allura’s scrutiny of the former prince; Lotor himself remains where he stands, but bows his head and unclenches his fists, then closes his eyes in the picture of defeat. Shiro almost feels bad until the red smeared into Keith’s collar catches his eye.

He’s starting to get tired of playing nice.

In the end- they don’t reach a decision. Coalition visitors greet the team and Lotor’s as they pass, some ask about the loud rumble that came from the gardens, and the notion of perpetuating it as an earthquake seems ridiculous until Pidge sends them a withering look and hashes out an irate, _detailed_ explanation as to the harsh reality of seemingly inconsequential explosions being perfectly able to set off a patchwork of structural instability. It’s enough of an earful that everyone quiets down pretty quick.

“I suppose there’s a bit of truth to every lie,” Lotor mutters as the lecture ends and the combined teams begin squabbling again.

Shiro raises his brow in a silent question, like, _hell’s that supposed to mean?_

Shadows warp the array of crimson and jasper and verdant strewn into the ex-prince’s hair, and his mouth curves up. “Oh, why don’t you tell me,” he jerks his chin toward Keith, close to the front and Ezor and Lance who bicker across him, “how long of watching potential suitors fawning over your second-in-command did it take to realize that marrying him was the only way to fend them off?”

Shiro glances at Keith as he gets pulled into a mock-headlock by Pidge, and huffs. It’s clear that Lotor is looking to get a rise out of him, but somehow, he can’t be bothered.

“Too long,” he answers quietly, and Lotor’s face twists into a kind of surprise he hasn’t seen before. Shiro shakes his head; dealing with him is a pain in the ass more than it isn’t, but right now, nothing holds up to a month’s worth of quiet longing, the bloom of warm reds in his chest, Keith’s relaxed posture when he looks over his shoulder to make sure they’re following. Compared to the bite of panic before every battle in Voltron, two dozen flash memories of blood and crowds in the least expected moments- this is nothing. Lotor is the tame kind of threat.

They fall silent for another four halls. Lance and Ezor stop bickering and the others laugh at something Zethrid exclaims about stuffy, nosy Coalition members. Even Allura cracks a smile, but Shiro’s eyes land on Keith’s reserved grin, the good-natured push he gives Lance when the latter heartily shares his agreement on the sentiment, how his suit accents the broad stretch of his back.

“Are you sure he feels the same?” Lotor asks, markedly quieter. Shiro searches for an answer- he doesn’t have one, and maybe won’t, ever, but that’s okay.

“Well,” he says, “it was his idea.”

Lotor stops talking.

 

 

 

Negotiations -or, as everyone decides to call them now, discussions- take near a week to make any progress, mostly due to the stubborn streak found in every opinion pertaining to quintessence threats. Troops and fighters are one thing, but the fear of magic runs deep on all sides, and when coupled with the former, breeds a state of stagnant, marinating tension, which Lotor finds understandably vexing- and Keith finds unreasonably funny. One thing they’re both accustomed to: quicker made decisions.

The difference here is that Lotor makes a case.

“You cannot possibly think that to humor him would bring anything but trouble,” Allura persists across the table during one meal. She stabs another piece of potato-like alien food, disgruntlement starting to bleed into her voice. “Yes, he may be the best detective on our roster, but that does _not_ mean I have to approve him to go on a mission nearly guaranteed to fail.”

Here they go again. Keith slouches further against Shiro’s side and dangles one leg off the side of the bench, then tips his head onto Shiro’s shoulder for a better view out the high window, which serves the only interesting piece in an otherwise bare dining hall. Much as the bombings sucked, he’s starting to miss fresh air.

“Apologies,” Kolivan says, though Keith has his doubts about the sincerity behind the word. “I was merely suggesting that your typical all-or-nothing approach may not be suited for this particular investigation, Princess.”

Lance points a fork at him. “Hey, that all-or-nothing approach happens to be the safest one! Why _not_ take out the Lions, do a little fly by past the enemy facility, and skedaddle once it’s all blown to pieces?” He puts his fork down and slumps back in his chair. “Problem solved, alliance secured.”

“Hallelujah,” Hunk mutters in agreement, poking suspiciously at his meal.

“Amen,” Pidge mumbles into her arms.

Shiro lets out a breath that Keith brands _exasperated_ and feels against his back. “It wouldn’t be that simple, guys. Even if we had the location of this facility churning out the substance, we don’t have clearance from the Mainland Council yet. The two kingdoms are still divided on course of action, so rushing in to take matters into our own hands would probably just upset the balance of power even further.”

That, and pretty much guarantee pulled support from the medical departments of Jerekov, which no one wants and everyone half-anticipates. Pidge mumbles something else against the table, then tugs at her hair.

Hunk makes a more invested _hm_ and reaches for a spice-shaker. “Well, at least we know why these terrorists wanted us gone so bad, right? I mean- heck, if I had access to the truth serum that caused this planet’s civil war, tore the nations apart and stirred up enough trouble that even the _Galra_ didn’t want to conquer this place, then I’d be guarding it pretty intensely too.” After pausing, he adds, “although- I wouldn’t try to blow us up in the process. I like being, you know, alive.”

“It is kinda strange that they’ve up and decided to play nice now,” Pidge agrees. “And that Lotor stopped finding half-finished attempts at recreating the quintessence right about when the alliance was set in stone.”

Shiro shrugs. “Maybe they realized they had bigger fish to fry.”

“Eh. Struck me more as some new player entering the game- someone with stakes closer to home,” she spins her glass on the tabletop. “I’m guessing that’s why they hit the palace directly once they had the chance.”

Kolivan goes still. It’s a subtle shift, at the edge of Keith’s peripheral- but he’s spent too long around him not to notice little ticks, what belies them. He doesn’t realize he’s tensed until Shiro slings an arm around his waist, warm and solid.

“Whatever, so back to the Lions,” Lance starts, “I’m thinking big, showy entrance, maybe right over the palace, okay? Rile up the crowd a bit, get them invested and-”

“Draw the enemy to exactly what we plan to strike with,” Acxa interrupts, faint annoyance crossing her face. Kolivan sets down his spoon and Keith returns to following the back and forth of discussion. “And possibly scare them off in the process. Think about it, Paladins- you’ve just lost a substantial amount of ground troops, nearly been captured by the former Galra prince, his generals, _and_ Voltron, but the second you most anticipate the vrepit sa- it never comes. What does that say about your enemy’s intentions, and what move do you execute next in retaliation?”

“It says the Coalition doesn’t expect us to attack again,” Keith answers.

Hunk gulps. “Oh man. I think it says that the Coalition and the Mainland Council are still divided. I’d figure an infiltration might have the better effect and- bulk up my forces.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hunk,” Lance complains, and props his chin on his fist. “These guys aren’t _that_ dumb, they know they can’t beat us in a firefight.”

“No, Hunk’s got it,” Keith says, and shifts to sit forward so he can see Allura better. Shiro’s hand stays on his hip. “Now you see why Lotor is so eager to move on the B3 group- if we wait for them to get smart, we risk another blow to the alliance.”

Acxa agrees, quieter, “and all of your previous work on gaining the Jerekovian’s trust may go to waste.”

The team’s eyes collectively slide toward Shiro and Keith. Heat crawls around his ears, but Shiro doesn’t bother untangling- instead, his palm moves around to Keith’s back and circles, that absent kind of reassurance that puts a pleased twist in his stomach. It’s unexpected in the best way. Shiro’s been quiet since the explosion, sleeping on the floor again, and Keith hasn’t known what to make of that last kiss; they’ve been dancing around since it happened. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe this is enough.

Allura chews, twirls her fork absently and looks from Kolivan to Acxa to Hunk, then back again.

“Kolivan,” she says eventually. “I’d like to hear your thoughts on the matter. Do you trust Lotor to work in the Coalition’s best interests?”

He pauses, then says haltingly, “I trust Lotor to... accomplish whatever he sets out to do. However- in this case, I am not sure that corresponds to your wishes, Princess.” By the look Pidge shoots Keith and the way Hunk’s nose screws up in judgment, he must see that the response is lacking in clarity, but doesn’t offer anything else.

“It’s official,” Lance huffs, “you’re more vague when it comes to this crap than Matt. And you-” he jabs a finger in Acxa’s direction, “-you’re as much of a killjoy as Keith, you know that? If he wasn’t married, I might actually set you two up!”

“Hey,” Keith objects, more on principle than anything.

“He’s- _not_ married,” Acxa points out, brow rising.

“Might as well be!”

“ _Hey_ ,” Shiro says this time, and the rest of the team laughs.

 

 

 

Morning dawns overcast and magenta, a startling contrast to the usual sepia-orange tint cast by a forever low sun, and with it brings the first headache of the day.

“I am not a child to be admonished, Kolivan!” Lotor stalks toward the far end of the meeting table and waves a hand over the holo-map’s central projector. It shifts into an overhead view of the palace and gardens. “We had the situation under control until your Paladins,” here he turns a pointed glance on empty chairs, then continues, “ _intervened_ , as they always seem to do. The leaders of the B3 group were just within our grasp when they divided the fight.”

“Then you are saying that, had we not ruined the operative, you wouldn’t have had reason to bring the substance to the Coalition at all?” Kolivan says, attempting to keep an even tone.

Lotor points with a claw, one eye creasing, and he lets out a throaty huff of a laugh. “No- _no_. You don’t get to do that to me, I am not the villain here, and this case is not black and white. You think you’ve seen the havoc this substance wreaked in an isolated situation- to the extent of causing their _civil war_ , but you cannot imagine the destruction my father could utilize it to-”

“Your father is a deranged man,” Kolivan persists, following Lotor’s pacing as it resumes. “And less likely than his witch to see the merit in weaponizing this substance- highness, I know you have ulterior motive for obtaining it, so why do you attempt to mislead me?” It doesn’t have the desired effect; Lotor doesn’t rise to the accusation, but rather places both hands on the white-trimmed sill and stares out to the violet-set city, braid slipping around the curve of his armor’s collar. Strands escape and drift in the breeze, over the harsh cut of narrow jaw and moving throat and the stretch of broad shoulders under his suit- and familiarity hits Kolivan dead on. He can’t count the number of times they’ve been here before.

“For the same reason your Paladins mislead the Jerekovians,” Lotor says. He glances over his shoulder, eyes hard. “Because even to the defenders of the universe, sometimes the ends justify the means.”

Ice digs sharp nails into Kolivan’s stomach and twists. “You speak of two different things-”

The glint to his cutting look reads danger. “I speak of you and Allura allowing Keith this, regardless of the risk it encourages him to accept and yet you’d deny me the same? Might I ask on what _fucking_ principle?”

Kolivan closes his hands at his sides. “I’d deny you nothing you wouldn’t later take without approval.”

Lotor’s jaw tightens and the yellows of his eyes show, violet skin shallowing to a paler shade and concerning. He shoves away from the window to move closer, footfalls ringing, hands fisting in the chest of his own cloak as if he’ll tear it apart to reveal some injury festering underneath, but his knuckles only whiten when Kolivan folds his arms. Mountain air filters in through rolls of purple mist, wet and cold and chilling the silence to sludge-slow lengths of a crawl. Lotor’s brow twitches. Unrest and memory twist Kolivan’s brow, though he holds the stare, resolute.

“I was your charge once,” Lotor says, low. “But no longer. Do not presume that submission flatters me.”

Kolivan’s fingers dig into his sleeves and wrinkle them. “Apologies, _Lotor_. I was under the impression that you’d learned to prioritize the mission over personal matters.”

“You and your-” he slaps his hand on the nearest chair, teeth flashing, “-damned mission, you speak of it as though you have no stake in my opinions and yet obsess over ulterior motive and my _father_ and _denying me_. Pick a side, Kolivan! Look me in the eye and tell me the true reason you hesitate!” Rare smiles and the flash of him upon the battlefield, sword swinging through blood and glory, but- no, it isn’t his place. It never was. Lotor’s fate is written out in infamy and statues and legend, and Kolivan’s is here, always; in the shadow where he can only strive for honorable death and perhaps the luck of preventing a handful in the process, Keith’s and the Paladins’ if he had to cast a guess of impulse. Lotor’s, if he has no shame in admitting the want of such a thing.

Kolivan covers the hand on the chair, worries fingertips over the tough skin of scarred knuckles. “It’s as you said, highness.” Lotor’s touch slides away, but he holds it a moment longer. “The case is not black and white.”

“Then make it so,” Lotor says, almost vulnerable. Then, as if clinging to an old belief for comfort- “I _will_ have the truth, Kolivan.” Of that, there’s next to no doubt.

He has too much drive to discover the unknown- just like his mother.

 

 

 

Discussions (arguments) spin on. Dinners get crowded as one by one, Lotor’s generals join and contribute to the mountain of paperwork that now occupies most of the team’s free time, courtesy of one secured-but-haphazard-alliance. Available space in the upstairs living area disappears under stacks of folders, the pictures Lance continues for some reason to print and forget about, recipes Hunk _had_ organized but were knocked over by people trying to get through, Pidge’s equipment, jackets and coats, empty mugs, assorted games, souvenirs, curtains Coran keeps switching over the windows, and near the end of the week- boxes upon boxes of medical tech samples to catalog and sort before sending them to Ryner.

Zethrid takes interest in the x-rays, mostly because she can hold one up to her arm and proudly show off every part of which bones she’s broken in combat (many) and Ezor occupies herself by stringing together some of the ankle and knee braces into a belt, then showing it off to Keith (impressed). Narti inspects the headwear and medications beside Allura, who asks questions at two-minute intervals and scribbles down whatever the general answers while trying to keep Kova from chewing wires.

Acxa sorts scalpels. Hunk writes their designated sizes and uses into yellow charts. Pidge and Lance join Ezor in trying to make hats out of the arm slings.

“I don’t think that’s right,” Lotor says to Shiro, two days and thirteen boxes into their task. He checks over his math again and puts his notepad down on the counter of the corner kitchen (destroyed).

“This is taking forever,” Shiro says, more to himself, but Lotor takes the pen and corrects the numbers. “I can’t believe we didn’t remember that we’d have to convert their numerical system to send Ryner the right amount of crap.”

“Aw, don’t beat yourself up,” Ezor says as she breezes by. “We’re almost done.”

“And that was _almost_ right the first time,” Acxa says, sliding the notepad towards her end of the island and taking Lotor’s pen to fix the math again. Narti pauses to point something out, and hands Lotor a mug of coffee, then a tablet, then Kova when he tries to pounce on the scritch-scritch of pen on paper. The cat _mrows_ unhappily and slinks around the prince’s shoulders. Shiro frowns at the screen.

Photos of dirty warehouses and spilled vats of an unnamed substance magnify at a touch. A few written formulas on torn paper. Lotor notices his attention and sighs, “we’ve been looking over the trafficked chemicals we’d found earlier. Locations, outcomes, sources... everything leads to a dead end.”

“So someone else really is after it,” Shiro assumes.

Lotor closes the tab. “Undoubtedly. It would seem that they’ve joined forces with B3, but the question is _whom_.”

“Someone we’ve fought before.”

“Someone you’ve beaten. Someone with a vendetta strong enough to warrant three months of undercover work on the most indecisive planet for seven solar systems.”

“Are you trying to confess?”

“Touche, Shirogane.”

Across the room, Keith’s head comes up. He looks around as if called and then, red-cheeked, turns back to his notebook. Shiro’s heart does somersaults. Lotor smirks without malice.

“I suppose it could’ve been worse,” he says, then adds at his mug, “for both of you.”

Shiro can’t take his eyes off of the content curve of Keith’s mouth and how one leg dangles off the table as he writes. In some ways...

No. Yes. The sun hits his hair just right. His eyes dart across the page, creasing when he stops to think and whack his pencil against the paper. In some ways, it couldn’t be, but Shiro just needs to accept that this is the best he gets; quiet distance, quiet glances, endless wistfulness and private longing. It’s been enough in the past, so he needs to make it enough again.

He hasn’t slept in the bed since the night he gave Keith his shirt. The floor isn’t bad, and it’s better than a cell, but later Keith’s arm slips off the mattress edge, searching, and Shiro can’t help but hold his hand against his chest until even breaths fill the air. He counts them.

He always counts.

 

 

 

Meetings continue. Speculation over whether the team worsened the Mainland’s level of danger doesn’t go unnoticed, and Allura branches into defensive mode for the better part of a week, then, by default, so do the Paladins. Coalition visitors delighted by the hospitality and bounce-back attitude of the split nations decide to stay for ‘research purposes’, though Shiro doubts the integrity of their interest outside receiving medical benefits- at least, until the Council organizes a dinner, sans decision on sharing the returned terrorism with the Coalition, and it goes better than expected.

Coran sits between the Queens again, all charm and old-school manners, and Allura between two rebel officers that make eyes at each other across her plate. It’s in equal parts amusing and -mostly to her- frustrating as hell, but then someone calls Keith _Shirogane_ again, and the logic-fueled part of his brain takes a nosedive into the emotional equivalent of whatever honey wine they’ve been served with their meal. Keith meets his glance across the table, mouth crooked. Some of Shiro’s drink spills over the side of his goblet.

Fuck- _ugh_.

Narti slaps a stack of napkins on the mess and turns to Acxa, who scowls. “Right? And he gets on _our_ ass about first impressions.”

Shiro mops the table absently. “I don’t think Lotor’s too concerned with our end of diplomacy right now.”

“He should be.”

Narti props her chin on her fist and makes a slight, irritated gesture at the major general. Shiro stifles a snort. “Well, he’s come around once, he might surprise us again.” After a pause, he adds, “how’s the investigation?”

“Confidential,” Acxa says. Narti rolls her head toward Shiro with an air of disinterest.

He pushes the wet napkins to the side. “That bad, huh?” A twinge of unrest continues to prod the area of his memory that wills some conclusive face to the mental list of _majorly pissed enemies,_ but none of note surface. Across the table, Lotor’s empty seat mirrors his anxiety. Acxa sighs; she and Narti reach for more food at the same time, as though calling it a day.

Three days pass in which time negotiations begin to flounder and fail, each ending with Lotor’s sullen silence and the Mainland Council’s scramble for papers he demands to see before combating Allura’s decision to keep strong under one movement. It can’t go poorly, but Kolivan continues to refuse pitching support to one side or the other; in extension Matt does the same, and Voltron remains out of the question per the Queens’ request to uphold some archaic law regarding WMD’s. Their major general and his cabinet go into an uproar as soon as it’s brought up. Eventually Allura gets tired of hearing them complain and banishes most of the room to discuss in a more civil setting, which everyone complies with pretty quickly, not without a few loud grumbles of frustration.

From there, chaos grows. Shiro retreats to the half-destroyed gardens after a fourth tremor chases servants and diplomats to one end of the palace, the team to the other where only a few walls decided to cave in as response, and Lotor back to his hastily retrieved ship at the mountain’s base, just beyond the garden wall. If Shiro squints, he can almost make it out.

“I still don’t trust the guy,” Matt says for the fifth time, boots kicking up dust and leaves strewn over the gazebo floor while he paces. “No, I’m telling you- something’s off. As soon as we send those shipments and get the okay from Ryner, I’m calling in my guys and he’s getting booted from project fix-the-crumbling-planet.”

“Acxa is right there,” Shiro points out, and she rolls her eyes from the entry arch.

Matt’s tone shifts to near-indignant, either oblivious to hypocrisy or not letting on that he isn’t, just to mess with them. “Acxa’s _nice_.”

Said general snorts and clears the stairs in one step, but Shiro catches the color rising to her face and grants Matt a semi-impressed look. He winks, flashes a shit-eating grin, then leans his elbows on the rail; Shiro chuckles and turns back to surveying the gardens. “Well anyway, it’s not up to us, otherwise I’m sure Allura would’ve had her way about three weeks ago. Maybe if Lotor would share what he’s withholding about this mystery enemy-”

“It’s not entirely to do with the enemy,” Acxa interrupts, coming to stand between them. “It’s about his mother.”

Shiro and Matt both shut up, in part because it’s a kind of blindsiding neither of them would usually take well, and in part because it’s _Acxa_ doing the snitching.

“Wow,” Matt says, once he’s apparently got a few brain cells working again. “Can I just be the first to ask, and how do I put this... where the everloving _hell_ did that tidbit of info go when you first showed up?”

She crosses her arms. “I thought Keith would have told you.”

Shiro’s brain must be melting. “Sorry... what?"

“Lotor believes he might find answers about his mother here,” Acxa says, slowly. “Whether through this group that’s been trafficking chemicals or the B3 terrorists or- hell, the planetary history, I don’t know. All he’ll tell us is that he’s getting close. Allura thinks it’s madness,” she adds, like it might help somehow. “Keith- I guess he hasn’t decided.”

“ _Well_ ,” Matt starts, and pushes off the railing, then holds up his hands like _I’m not touching this one with a ten foot pole._ “Glad we’re at least a _little_ bit closer to being on the same page, here- the same chapter, at least. The same _act_. I’m heading to raid the kitchens Shiro, are you coming with me?”

Any other day, he’d say yes for old time’s sake, but the thought of distraction after a dropped bomb like that isn’t high on the priority list anymore. That spot remains reserved for most things Keith-related, or at least dreams-about-Keith-that-leave-him-hot-and-sweaty related.

“No thanks,” he says. “I need to figure out how long it’s going to take Ryner to look at those supplies.”

It’s a lie -a bad one- but Acxa agrees, “they’re probably the most important thing we’re getting out of this alliance. I should try to lock down an expedited route before we send them. And convince Narti to put back the scalpels I know she stole.”

“And raid the kitchens _with_ me,” Matt reminds smoothly.

“Ye- what?”

“Come on,” he says, prompt, and plants his hands on her shoulders. Acxa shoots Shiro an alarmed look once Matt steers her away from the rail. “You’ve been tense since you got here and Hunk is waiting. Next meeting’s in three hours, so that leaves plenty of time for some Paladin-Rebel-Outlaw bonding.” She starts three more (half hearted) protests before he gets her down the steps, but the color is back in her face and Shiro swears he catches a glint of pleased embarrassment peeking through when Hunk waves from the path. It’s enough to relax him, but not fully.

Across the gardens, Lotor slams a panel on his ship, and covers his eyes with one hand.

 

 

 

Another week in finds Keith haunting the next hidden gazebo in the gardens, this time farther toward the mountain and tucked between five willows. He leans back against a post that’s really a sixth, winding up and out along the roof, dripping wheat and gold over open glass windows; warm breezes rustle the forest behind and shadows sweep over blank patches of grass, whispering the promise of storms later in the week. He loses time tracing out patterns in tangerine clouds.

It’s quiet, but he thinks the appeal lies in sifting through a dozen layers of white noise that exaggerate as much. Steady hammering and scraping rock and the curious chirp of birds at the distant wall, windows opening and the constant sizzle-pop of something cooking beyond the open kitchens door, wind whistling down the hill toward a city alive with carts and music and mingling- the nature of it is less quiet than the joy of watching, sequestered. He closes his eyes and soaks in the sun.

Shiro finds him, because it’s the sort of thing he’s best at- hunting out a person’s heart and staking things on where it leads them.

He wanders the length of the floor. Keith watches over one hunched shoulder and sees what he expects; tense lines, a faintly unsettled expression. Pacing. Just as he decides to ask what’s bothering him, Shiro comes up, runs a hand through his hair as though in defeat, then sets it on Keith’s back in a slow but soothing stroke- and it catches him off-guard enough to hesitate.

“How are you holding up?” he asks, like Keith is the one with white hair and developing stress lines around his eyes. A smile pulls at his mouth, unplanned, but it’s worth it for the way Shiro relaxes, apparently taking it as some positive answer. In part, Keith means it as one.

“Figured,” Shiro continues, and his hand falls away. “Anyway, I just came to ask if you wanted to join the generals for a walk, they’re... getting pretty antsy without a fight, and I’m worried they’ll start one before long.”

Keith responds with a _pff_ noise. “Must be all that Galra blood.”

“I don’t know, it comes in handy.”

“Ouch.”

“Sensitive.”

Keith pushes at him, and he pushes back, and laughs. The stress lines become crinkles of a smile. Longing seizes Keith’s heart and makes it work overtime.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Shiro says, and nods. “Good. It’s about time Lotor and company learned to get along with the others.”

“Right,” Keith answers, distant. Shiro taps the rail while he surveys the horizon, smile achingly familiar. Sometimes it’s as if the man who’d faced a witch on his own and cut apart Galra cruisers like butter to get to his team is someone else entirely- the fierceness remains, but it’s hidden. “Shiro?”

“Mhm?”

“How much longer do you think this alliance is gonna take?”

Shiro lifts his head. His expression sobers, and his eyes drop to where Keith knows a nasty bruise still hasn’t faded from his cheek; he understands. Neither of them wants to see the team hurt. False marriages aside- the longer they stay, the higher the risk of fighting, the likelier that someone gets benched. Shiro’s hands come up. He moves hair from Keith’s neck, checks the nearly invisible stitches at his jaw, the bruises under his knuckles, touch soft, barely there at all- and then he turns Keith from the rail, and something in his eyes sparks when his hands settle on either side of Keith’s head.

“I don’t know,” he says, quiet, “but I’m here for you, Keith.” Soft intensity colors his voice, and Keith’s memory winds back to a time that he thought he’d never hear it again. He grasps Shiro’s arms.

“Promise.”

Shiro leans his head against Keith’s, never breaking eye contact. “I promise.”

Somehow, it makes him think of the Garrison. Could they have comforted each other like this on the platform, before Kerberos, Keith thinks it wouldn’t have been so different; a dozen passerby become inconsequential in light of concern over a dozen wounds, physical or otherwise, the weight of leaning so much of oneself on another, and trust. He thinks of Shiro slipping out of grasp, a fleeting moment. Golden plumes of clouds. Empty desert nights. A loneliness like being chased and trapped by tumbling rocks and crushed by sheets of dark, suffocating dirt.

Shaking earth in his nightmares. Landslides.

“Come on,” Shiro says. “Let’s get out of here.”

Keith nods.

Two hours later, things fall apart again. Acxa and Allura get into it during an eventful meeting in which Pidge startles them all by pulling up confidential files about the two kingdoms’ civil war, points out the connection between their disagreement on discontinuing use of the truth-quintessence in courts of law, and has it out with the major general as soon as he accuses her of political bias toward the Western Kingdom. Lance defends Pidge; Hunk, Zethrid and Ezor argue that they have more important questions to answer, to which Lotor snaps that _no, not anymore they don’t._

He has a point. The Eastern slice of Council shuts down inquiries for the better half of an hour regardless of who makes them. Their Queen sits in suspicious quiet and listens, a dozen different confusions flicking across her face, like this is an old fight she still isn’t sure she’s invested in. Narti picks up on it. Lotor goes off again, Allura and Kolivan insist on civility that never comes and Shiro- Shiro-

The thing most people don’t get about flashbacks is that it doesn’t take much to set one off. Keith can count on one hand the number that Shiro’s told him had a pinpoint source, but those had more to do with location than subject and he can see that it’s not the case now. White knuckles on the chair. Hunched shoulders. Wide eyes, fast breaths.

“Hey,” he says, but his voice gets lost in the din of bickers and shouts- Shiro can’t hear him anyway. His blood pressure spikes, and he shouts again, he doesn’t know what.

Voices start to die. Keith shoves through decorated officials and cabinet members, etiquette be damned; their eyes burn the back of his neck when he pries metal fingers from wood and steers Shiro into the hall. It’s not something he’d do anywhere else, but clearing the room is impossible, and this is the next best option. The _thunk_ of the closed door hits Shiro like a visible punch. He twists out of Keith’s grip and jerks toward one hall, then the other. Faster breaths. Tighter movements, then none at all.

He doesn’t run. He wouldn’t, and he can’t, where he is- damn the monsters that did this to him, _damn_ them, _damn it._

Later, Keith says that aloud, and Shiro doesn’t react except to take another sip of whatever herbal remedy Hunk had cooked up, because of course the Jerekovians have a tea that cures migraines. They’ve settled at the kitchen island, Keith on a stool, Shiro standing and across, pencil set to the paper of some leftover file, though he hasn’t moved it in twenty-three minutes. His eyes wandered to some point in the distance, and didn’t come back.

Keith puts down his papers and keeps his voice low. “We should get some rest. Pidge will be up soon, probably make a racket with Ryner’s packages.” He’s learned to avoid specifics when medical equipment is involved, but a line appears between Shiro’s brows anyway.

Silence. Cooler winds circulate from the windows and bring in the smell of impending rain.

“Bed’s kinda cold when you’re not there,” Keith says softly, and the moment Shiro comes back is like a shift in air pressure. The pencil goes down. His grip tightens around the mug, loosens, then disappears so he can press his hand against his eyes. Shutters rattle behind them.

One beat. Two beat.

“They weren’t monsters, Keith.”

They were. He’s said it before, only because the _I was_ couldn’t hold up under logic and common knowledge about the hells of Galran prison. Keith gets up and moves around the island. He knows Shiro. The bent to his gaze in a fight, and this isn’t one, but there’s an edge to the way he stills that reeks of self-loathing. It eats Keith from the inside.

“Shiro.”

No response, no movement. Hunched shoulders.

Keith cups the back of his neck, says in a half-whisper, “Takashi,” and that gets him.

(They never agreed that Keith couldn’t sleep on the floor.)

 

 

 

It isn’t their last encounter with the inter-galactic side of things; seven high-ranking visitors invite themselves to the Mainland’s marketplace for, again, research purposes, and leave the team plus Kolivan scrambling to keep track of them lest another attack fall during their activities. They end up near the docks, bustling downtown shops and business fronts, more inland and beside the first bombing. By the time Shiro’s flagged down one of Matt’s groups next to a shaded, nondescript monument of unknown metal combinations, he’s accumulated enough dust in his hair to leave a cloud every time someone jerks him toward the next sight.

Except here.

“You know, I have to say that knowing how the truth-quintessence used to be a big part of this place’s government still gives me the shivers,” Hunk says, “but this is... gorgeous.”

He’s not wrong. _Green_ is the first descriptor to come to mind, even in the depths of a half-rebuilt, sun-beaten part of a largely clay and brick corner of town; willows sprout to yawning heights every two yards and set glittery, vivid verdant leaves adrift at a steady rate, like snowfall, intermingled with petals and patches of ashy bark. Wet soil emanates a low, earthy smell that sits over reedy cattails in an unmoving breeze. The result- something weighted, still. Removed from time.

“Knowing the history can only work to our benefit,” Pidge reminds. She fidgets as though she wants to snatch a plant sample, but ultimately restrains herself. “The fact that the Eastern Kingdom upheld those laws until the last leg of the civil war says a lot about their willingness to participate in negotiations _now_ , not to mention the state of the Mainland’s restoration department, the Western queen’s hesitation to back WMDs, the perfect storm that was Shiro and Keith’s traditional yet progressive union to appease said Queens and-” Lance slaps a palm over her face as the group ahead of them calls for the team to catch up. She goes a little pink, but the growl Lance earns effectively communicates her disgruntlement at being cut off in the middle of geeking out over landmarks and cultural polarization and the such. Hunk disguises his snort as a cough.

“She’s right,” Allura muses, gaze wandering. “After so much suffering at the hands of their own systems, I can see why Jerekov was so desperate to welcome good news.”

Traditional yet progressive. New player. Naxzela. Words spin around Shiro’s head.

Keith says nothing. There’s a subtle peace to his posture when he brushes willow pieces from his shoulders, and fits his palm against Shiro’s before they move on.

Later, they wander to a dark pavilion as a storm rolls in and, after exhausting possible ways to unite Lotor’s team with the Coalition’s interests, find the subject of war and people and cultures- the way they avoid it, the way they deal with it. Keith gets quiet after taking a crack at the Blades and Shiro takes one at Earth and both at each other, followed by close-mouthed laughs and a pause. Precarious moments. Keith like this, smile easy, looking -really _looking_ \- at Shiro, red-cheeked, it blows through his preconceptions.

It’s all he can do not to beg an answer out of him to a question he’s still figuring out how to ask.

Rain patters quieter past the overhang. Keith’s steps echo through the low-roofed structure of carved wood for another three seconds before he pauses, and they fade out, absorbed by water that runs and bubbles along the sides where they’d been warped flat to the ground, like a halved, hollow redwood oozing out toward the stars in east and west. Soft blue lights wink lazily under benches and hammocks and crawling vines. Everything about this place feels muted.

“What’s up?” Shiro takes the initiative to ask. Keith quits scanning the whorls of cool mist that blow in to their right, and looks round.

“Nobody calls you by my name.”

“I- what?”

Keith fidgets, but his hands stay clasped behind his back like if he moves them, he’ll run. Shiro wouldn’t put it past him, so he squeezes Keith’s shoulder and amends, “sorry, go on,” but he doesn’t. One hand comes up, hesitant, and the other takes Shiro’s to open it. He presses a silver chain into his palm. Two tags. Two different names.

“Wasn’t in your will but it was the only thing I wanted,” Keith says, running his thumb over the hollow ends of _Shirogane_. It presses the raised side into Shiro’s skin and imprints. “Figured you should decide.” He doesn’t smile, exactly, but the quiet in his tone takes on a familiar lightness. “I’ll trade you.”

Shiro huffs out a little _sure_ that the quickening shower outside washes away, but gratitude lingers, pressing. He closes his hand around Keith’s and studies it with a light squeeze. Keith does smile, then, and squeeze back. God, he puts the wild to shame. Shiro’s chest tightens and everything in him wants to touch or hold.

But Keith says, “we should’ve brought an umbrella,” and drags his thoughts back to the now downpour that drenches the sides of the pavilion, relentless.

“Not sure that would’ve been a great idea,” Shiro answers dryly. Thunder rolls as though in punctuation, and Keith grins. An idea strikes him. “You remember the storms out at the Garrison? Actually- remember graduation?” When the grin falters, and his brow tilts up, but he nods, Shiro lets go of his hand. He takes off his boots. Keith makes a sound of rather concerned recognition, eyes wider.

“Uh,” he says, at another roll of thunder, louder. “You sure you wanna do that?”

If there’s one constant about Keith, it’s that he doesn’t back down from a challenge. Shiro counts on it when he replies, “don’t go responsible on me now, punk.” The rain hits his back, his neck, freezing. He shivers and pushes his bangs out of his eyes to watch Keith’s go intent and bright, movements jerky when he tugs off his shoes. Shiro bolts. The shout Keith makes once he feels the water sets his blood soaring, and they’re covered in mud within minutes, but he hasn’t had so much fun in months.

Keith’s smile stays the rest of the night, and Shiro feels a smudge of pride spread through him every time it’s visible.

 

 

 

Four days pass and the team gets used to catching a constant rumble-crack of shifting dirt under their feet; the tremors strike fast and slow, with warning and without, and damage adds up. By the time they patch the garden wall and what feels like every inch of the palace twice over, they’re all turning faucets the opposite way.

“Are we _ever_ going to get somewhere with this alliance?” Lance complains over breakfast. “If I have to take a cold shower one more time-”

“Aw, worried about your delicate complexion?” Pidge coos. He swats at her and she jabs back with a spoon. They end up locked in silverware combat for the next minute, before Hunk takes the seat between them and bodily holds each back with one hand, effectively settling the conflict. Matt groans and Shiro snorts over his mug. If only they could do that with the Lotor and the Council.

“Trust me, I’m as fond of dust and grime as the rest of you,” says someone, and the door closes behind- speak of the devil. “But we are making progress.” He takes a seat beside Keith, which is a tactical error on his part, because Keith took a seat two away from Allura, and she’s just left to grab something from her room. The moment Lotor realizes this is the same that she returns, and his face is _priceless_.

Oddly enough, she smiles- quick, flashed, but seemingly genuine. Hunk asks, hopeful, “good news?”

“The best,” she answers, and collapses into her chair. “Matt’s fleet has arrived, and the Council is distracted enough to throw them a grand welcome. Looks like we’re out of meetings for the next two days.”

Lance gives a wild _whoop_ and Matt grins back once Pidge socks his arm, jabbers something about withholding information and shakes him- all but Shiro and Lotor stand at the same time, and begin rushing to make plans. Allura makes a sort of squawking noise and attempts to round them back in, flitting from plate to plate and thrusting discarded files back into guilty hands, though it doesn’t do much good. Lotor’s generals barge in at the chaos and join several developing discussions in rapid assimilation. Kolivan turns up just as the joint team deserts the table. Shiro fails to swallow his coffee for laughing too hard.

“Are they always like this?” Lotor asks, but he’s smiling too, like he’s starting to get it.

“Yes,” Shiro says, and sets his mug down to get up.

 

 

 

Their remaining time off passes in a whirl of recreation, fuzzy-edged hours of dozing off outside, and the bubble of conversation closed over the dinner where everyone is formerly reunited; both Queens make their entrance, just as grand as when the Paladins and Coalition board arrived and Coran gets in a good amount of gossip with all parties. It isn’t a dinner, exactly- that implies some degree of stuffiness, at least to Keith, and it’s an element sorely missing. The fleet seems almost as dedicated to being of service as they are to draining the palace’s wine stores. By midnight, the food’s been all but forgotten.

Matt does little with introductions unless it’s on Acxa’s or Hunk’s behalf. Keith realizes this a bit late, but exploits it immediately nonetheless because while he may be hopeless with sneaking and prying, he’s anxious not to miss opportunities. They make their rounds. He shakes hands. Shiro kisses him at the temple and tells him to try the dessert before disappearing again.

“I have to say, the rebels know how to have a good time,” Acxa says at some point.

Keith gives her a side-along grin. “Almost sounds like a compliment coming from you.”

“Don’t push your luck, Kogane.”

Matt hooks an arm around his neck. “ _Please_ push your luck, Kogane- and let me cut in? One dance, I _swear_ I won’t puke on your fancy suit-”

“ _No_ ,” they both answer, vehement, and manage to herd him toward an empty seat, where he promptly passes out. Acxa pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs, but there’s no small amount of fondness in her voice when she offers to keep an eye on him- Keith has no arguments, but when he turns to find Shiro and call it a night, the rest of the generals arrest his efforts and use him as a shield against nosy rebels.

“You know you’ll have to make nice sooner or later,” he points out uselessly. Ezor gasps.

“I am nice!” she insists, “it’s just- so crowded, and we keep getting weird looks!”

Acxa mutters, “that may have more to do with your outfit than anything.”

“Shiro’s in black too!”

“There’s a bit of precedence for that,” Keith grins, and follows her waving hand to the balcony that overlooks the gardens where Shiro is indeed in a charcoal suit, right hand gloved, pace slow and measured from end to end. The only piece out of place is the rakish way his hair falls over his forehead, almost in his eyes, like he’s been running his hands through it all night.

Kova leaps gracefully onto Keith’s shoulder, and he reads loud and clear from Narti; _or someone else has._

“You- you know it’s not like that between us.”

She reaches over and tugs Keith’s hair, neatly (almost) pulled back into a tie, untouched, then nods back at Shiro. When the meaning dawns, his face burns though he knows even as he thinks it that nothing could be further from possible, that even upholding a fake relationship, Shiro would never- but a jolt of something burnt strikes him. He can’t decide; want? Fear? Maybe Shiro wouldn’t initiate at all, maybe it was an affection pushed on him without permission-

Narti socks him in the shoulder, jiggles Acxa’s arm as the others snort and giggle, ruffles Keith’s bangs and then his hair _is_ messed up.

“Yeah, I know,” he grumbles, but the clashing emotions lock into a whirl of wondering at the back of his mind.

It’s like a switch flicked on. He sees glum jealousy in glances, pity behind polite smiles and tries to imagine why he didn’t catch it before. Acxa’s and the general’s jabs, however lighthearted start to dig under his skin. Every meeting, excursion into town, scramble to patch the palace foundation after more semi-earthquakes; Keith suddenly listens to whispers of either Black Paladin being wasted on the other or speculation about their intimate life that usually ends in sympathetic recollection of the Champion and horrors enough to ruin a man and _oh, how sad_. He collapses into bed at night and thinks _would he touch me even if he wanted to?_

That the latter half of the question continues to exist is just icing on the cake.

“You look glum,” Lotor remarks eventually, otherwise absorbed in skimming some new file Narti has dug up on the chemicals teleporting all over the damn country. “One would think that securing adequate forces to move on the B3 group would brighten spirits.”

Keith tosses a mauve folder on the table and sits back in his chair, defeated. “I’m only _half_ Galra, Lotor.” The rest of the point registers. “What do you mean, move on B3? We don’t even know where they are yet.” He frowns deeper as Lotor raises an eyebrow, mouth curled, and waves the file once, absently. The amusement belying that silence doesn’t strike him as typical of someone who hasn’t just found out something pleasing. Keith tilts his head. A concession.

“We don’t,” Lotor agrees, “but we know the locations of someone that had previously been _following_ B3.”

“Patterns change.”

“When did you become so sensible? It’s like speaking into a well and hearing my own inner skeptic shout back.”

“I take that as a compliment, Lotor.”

“From your Galra half, or your human half?”

Keith tips his head back against the chair and exhales a laugh.

 

 

 

To most of the teams’ surprise, the arrival of Matt’s forces becomes catalyst for chaos. Where they’d expected an easy transition, rebel and militia working together in the interest of protection and medical equipment, respectively, there grows disagreements and arguments and an all-around hostility toward various alien races mingled into resistance ranks. Four-fifths of the Council call for a pause to training while they combat Pidge and the generals’ investigation into how the East’s use of truth quintessence connects to the attacks. When Lotor’s insistence on invading enemy territory divides the Council again, agitates the team, focuses the hostility in Shiro’s denial and gets the prince banished to the hall for a more peaceful discussion- Keith’s thoughts are stuck in an unending loop of what exactly he could do to make this mess better.

“...no, Narti, I don’t think coming here was worth it,” Zethrid growls as they wait in the corridor. “There isn’t a single fighting ring in this entire, extravagant palace. Who builds a place like this without the entertainment aspect in mind?” Zethrid asks, and Ezor nods along in sympathetic agreement. Narti scrubs a hand over her face.

“I know we’re all tired.” Lotor props his elbows over his knees. “But the matter might as well be out of our hands now. You did excellent work, and I’m sure it won’t go unrecognized.”

Acxa’s back hits the wall with a thump. “And the alternative? Their kingdoms looking on while a handful of Galra are pinned with medals, yeah, they’re gonna go for that.”

Keith clears his throat. “They trust Kolivan.”

“Kolivan is hard not to trust,” Lotor says, but he’s looking away, “and you are the Black Paladin.”

“That’s Shiro’s title.”

“And you are Shiro’s _husband_ ,” he returns, like Keith half-expected him to, eyes and volume coming back up. “The target on your back is ringed in violet, and the bullseye on his, red. Once the Coalition is convinced, are you prepared to take on my father with that knowledge? Are you prepared to live a lie the rest of the war, and after?” Keith opens his mouth, and then closes it. He’ll be whatever the war needs him to be- whatever Shiro needs him to be, and it isn’t news but the reactions to it and concerns of danger are aggravating. People haven’t noticed that Shiro is just as reckless as Keith- until Lotor’s eyes narrow, and maybe he’s the first. “You are. You _are_. It isn’t a lie, is it- not for you. But what about him?”

There’s the kicker; Keith can read a lot of things on Shiro, but love isn’t one of them. He rakes a hand through his hair again and paces. Ezor giggles. “What’s with you giving relationship advice, Lotor? You know we _all_ saw the way you froze up when Kolivan wa-” Narti elbows her, hard, and effectively cuts her off with a look and gesture toward Zethrid as she stands zoned-out to the side. Ezor rubs her arm and hisses, “I thought we agreed not to talk about it while we’re working. Yeah, I _know_ , Narti, but that’s not the point-”

They dissolve into intense glares and whispers, and Lotor studies Keith. “Regardless.” His voice takes on a different tone. “We both want the same thing; this planet, in our past. There is only one course of action to make it that way.”

“Divorce?” Ezor guesses.

“Faking their deaths and taking out the Council, forever establishing Voltron’s rule over the planet?” Zethrid suggests, hitting her fist against her palm in emphasis. Narti’s tail flicks.

“Zethrid please,” Lotor sighs.

“I agree with Narti,” Acxa mutters, as if they’ve been over the very thing and found it wanting. “Keith is vital to both the Blades _and_ Voltron, we can’t just adopt him for every mission that requires a sixth set of eye- Narti, you don’t _have_ eyes. What? No, Kova doesn’t count. Whatever, the point is- Allura would never approve. If we do this, we’d be going behind a dozen backs and breaking several laws-”

“-that we’ve already broken,” Zethrid reminds, “and gladly. Come _on_ , Acxa, let Keith speak for himself.”

“About what?” he asks, wary though he already has an idea.

“Take matters into your own hands,” Lotor cuts in, firm though his eyes are red-rimmed and there’s a crease between his brows. “Accompany us on an infiltration mission, and once the Council sees that we’ve returned victorious, they’ll let you go.”

Keith runs his hand through his hair one last time, but snags a braid and runs over the smooth ridges with a lost kind of resignation, Shiro’s touch stuck fast to memory. In his mind’s eye, he sees the crook of Shiro’s smile, imagines it pressed to his shoulder, his fingers on Shiro’s neck and in his broad back and he wants, and wants, and it’s an ache. Trying to hold onto the feeling is like trying to catch smoke.

“Okay,” he relents. “What did you have in mind?”

 

 

 

It takes half the morning for Lotor to return, and Kolivan knows because Shiro counts the same hours he does through the first meeting, then the break, then part of the second. Shiro counts because Keith went with him. They were both played for a fool, in the kindest way. It stings.

A feeling he thought he’d done away with. One can only endure so many years of narrowly avoiding death without setting aside injuries of less import, but noon comes and the conference room’s door opens and Lotor strides in with blood in his hair- Kolivan pushes his chair back and it topples, clatters on tile. “What have you done?” Across the table, he’s sure Shiro would have done the same had he been seated. Keith lowers his gaze at the tone. He’s favoring his left leg again.

“Apologies for our appearance,” Lotor says. He gestures to the rest of his generals as they filter into the room, disheveled and bruised just as he and Keith. “We’ve located the terrorists’ attempts to infiltrate the underground halls and closed them in.”

Matt starts, “I thought Shiro already told you, we _really_ aren’t ready to just-”

“-yes, I’m aware of your cowardly reservations,” Lotor snaps, much to the surprise of- everyone. Kolivan tastes rebuke at the back of his throat, molten anger twisting to words for the first in a long time, but Keith steps up before he can say anything and grabs Lotor’s upper arm. Lotor’s mouth twists, and he falls silent. Kolivan swallows impulse in favor of composed patience.

“We need to gather forces and move on the northern mountain pass,” Keith says, deceptively calm. “The D1 group has reformed.”

Lance sits forward and splays a hand across the table. “Woah, woah, woah, mullet boy- I thought we chased the last of those guys off with this- B whatever group when Lotor showed up!”

“Merely a fraction of them,” Lotor explains. “When my generals and I set off a strike signal to see who would bite, only half of a single regiment -if one can call it that- came to call. The rest are still gathering numbers with B3 in the north. After a failed attempt to bring the fight to the palace, they’ll bomb the city to draw you out again.”

“We need Voltron,” Allura says.

“We need to strike now,” Lotor answers.

“Absolutely not.”

“We have done it once before, we can do it again. Keith and I will lead a squadron, all we ask is a handful of Holt’s soldiers and Blades-”

Allura interrupts, “it is _not_ so simple,” and his eyes shift, expression locking, posture stiff. It’s a mood Kolivan’s seen before- the same as what the other generals are attempting and failing to suppress. Defiance fits the same on them. “We move together, or not at all. I thought you were on the side of caution.” She gives a pointed glance to the blood sponged across Keith’s neck. The rest of the room quiets. Lotor sighs, low, and nudges the hand from his arm, and it leaves a crimson print against gray armor.

He looks- awful. They all do, but Lotor especially. Kolivan’s mind races at the injuries, the mangled armor; it doesn’t look made by an endemic weapon, it looks Galran. Who have they truly been fighting? Who does Lotor believe could have the answer about his mother, beside Kolivan himself?

“Perhaps they have a point, princess,” Kolivan says, to his surprise as well as everyone else’s. Lotor doesn’t relax, not fully, but his eyes come up wide while Kolivan casts about for a probable and truthful excuse. “I will not have my Blades stationed here unless the danger is less than our limit for handling, but leaving ground forces on their own while Voltron forms isn’t an option either.” Lotor’s mouth twitches, and he looks away. “Now that we know the enemy is gathering numbers, the time for caution is quickly closing. Holt- had the Paladins not spoken before you voiced your opinion, would the stance you hold be different?” Every eye shifts to Matt. He scratches at his jaw, tense.

“I don’t like this,” comes the answer. “Still feels like we’re setting up a repeat of-” he rubs over his mouth rather than finish, and slides his gaze to Keith. Naxzela; it’s the unspoken, but Kolivan isn’t sure what stake he has there until Keith turns his head away, and Shiro tracks the broken thread of sight to Matt again. Lotor shakes his head at Keith almost imperceptibly. What the _fuck_.

Allura stands from the far end of the table. “Answer the question, Matthew.”

Holt lowers his hand, slowly. He exchanges a look with Olia. “Pretty sure you won’t like what I have to say.”

“Holt,” Kolivan prompts, louder.

“I think- maybe-” he starts, then rushes through, “they have a point too.”

The room erupts into heated discussion. Four hours and two outbursts from Lotor later, the prince dismisses himself and leaves the Council at odds again, his generals exchange solemn looks but stay, and someone remembers the prisoners in the basement. Shiro suggests that the Paladins take their leave in a tone that exudes discomfort- Kolivan doesn’t blame him, and he doesn’t expect any of them, much less Keith to comply, but ultimately the team defers. Sun set approaches rapidly. By the time they’ve decided to leave any interrogations alone, Kolivan has nothing more to offer and excuses himself.

He strikes out to tell Lotor about the dinner and finds him seated at the courtyard, east overlooking dusk as it falls, hand trailing into the square pool that cuts through stone rail to drop off toward the city and off the plateau.

Night approaches deep and blue and crawls along the horizon past flickering window lights that burn a duskier tangerine against dark, shapeless homes. Stars peer through wispy strands of cotton clouds. Lotor breathes in deeply as though he’ll never get enough of the sweet, wild taste in the air- he wouldn’t be the only one. Kolivan sits beside sweeping willow strands, and listens to the stream whisper through the courtyard and under shallow bridges of sandy wood.

“This place,” Lotor says, “my father would tear it apart, and never look twice.”

Kolivan isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say to that. His hand comes up to the blood on Lotor’s temple, automatic, and the prince only flinches a bit before allowing the tentative attention. “You are not Zarkon.”

“Then I am but a boy stepping into the boots of his father’s evils,” Lotor snaps. “My methods are controversial at best and abominable at worst. My mother is nameless, and gone, and my generals bear exhaustion to no end.” His brows draw together, and up, crease his forehead and strain the raw scrape that Kolivan covers with a spare cloth. “Can Allura not _see_ that the longer we wait, the more destruction we could bring?”

“Strategy is a delicate business when one throws the fate of a rebellion into the mix.”

Lotor laughs, harsh. “The years have made you wise but hesitant, Kolivan, and I don’t know that either prove beneficial. What happens when your indecision finally gets someone killed?”

“Highness-” Kolivan starts.

“I am no longer your prince!” His breath shallows as if it’s a blow to both of them. “Why do you continue to seek me out as though I were?”

The stars blink in and out, recording and discarding, anticipatory.

Kolivan lets out a breath, and dabs at the crimson stain near Lotor’s scalp. “For the same reason you could not leave the case unfinished.” It’s as much an admission to himself as to Lotor. “We are Galra, old friend, it is not in our nature to forget the things which once provided purpose.”

Lotor’s eyes narrow. “Evidently a lesson Keith has taken to fucking heart. For the way he throws himself in front of ion cannons, I suppose your incertitude on attacking these terrorists is warranted.”

A quick scan of recent memory turns up an inconsistency in the accusation. Kolivan searches Lotor in turn for some revealing twitch. “...ion cannons?”

“Even you are not omniscient,” the prince says. It’s vicious, and in its own way- forgiving. Lotor rises, and stalks across the courtyard, and Kolivan doesn’t stop him. The unrest that’s plagued him since the start of this ordeal consumes the last of his reservations.

 

 

 

Everyone remains oddly quiet as they reconvene in the upper apartment floor which houses all the rooms, spaced out along the breakfast table and benches and sofas set out beside the long window. The Paladins had been the first to be dismissed, minus Shiro, then the generals, so by the time the combined six and Matt return to the others, they’ve had time to cool down. Pidge tackles Acxa into an embrace, gore and all, and Lance joins in; Hunk pulls Ezor and Zethrid each into a one-armed hug, and, to Shiro’s surprise, Allura scoops up Kova after the little guy winds around her ankles, exhausted, slides an arm around Narti’s shoulders, and leads her to an open chair.

Keith stands, armor untouched and in the same state he came in as. Coran glances over with the intent to say something, but evidently decides against it once Shiro moves across the carpet, heart in his throat. Waking to an empty room itself set something loose in his chest, but it claws and rages once he gets a look at the damage.

“Shiro, I...” Keith starts, avoiding his eyes.

He takes Keith by the shoulders and examines his bloody temple. “Why didn’t anyone look at this?” At the lack of response and still averted eyes, he gentles his tone but moves him firmly toward their suite. “ _Keith_.” There’s no need to prompt, in the end. He limps after Shiro and once the door closes, lights go on; he draws Keith into the bathroom, props him on the counter and goes fishing around the drawers for a spare medical kit. They both hiss when the suit comes off. Three layers of skin try to peel away with it. Keith breathes a few curses.

“Hell were you fighting?” Shiro asks, like this is another desert-sunset washed infirmary visit, and he’s just dropped the _you should see the other guy_ line.

“Like we said,” Keith mumbles. “D1, B3, I dunno. They all start to look the same when they’re coming at you fast enough.”

Shiro fumbles with the med kit. He has to put it down.

“You should see the other guy,” Keith adds, like he knows he’s dealt a blow and regrets it. Shiro laughs, uneasy, but gets back to it.

Light touches to the bruised, blood-sticky blotches around his knee reveal the immediate area of concern; nothing feels broken, but they’ve both been wrong before. Two familiar claw marks part Keith’s skin, three inches up his forearm. Something about it makes sense. Shiro gives him a look that he hopes says _you need a real doctor_ and gets one right back that says, _make me_ though in the end, Keith’s inability to walk without a limp is the dealbreaker- so they exchange little more words before doing what they can with what they have. Steam rises off the bath and fogs the mirror behind his head. Shiro’s hair curls against his forehead as he works.

“I think Lotor’s coming around,” Keith says, ten minutes later. “He says an infiltration will save a lot of grief, but he gets why Allura wants all-around consensus.”

Shiro huffs. “Probably sees it as a way to avoid getting blamed if the thing goes sour.”

“Probably.”

Silence. Spare paper towels crinkle in Shiro’s fist before he releases them, and finishes up with a last band-aid that seems suddenly fickle. Keith’s mouth moves without opening, but he doesn’t speak as he gets down from the counter and takes his suit with him, Shiro’s heart goes to his throat- he closes the door just as Keith opens it, a little _chu-chuk_ noise of knob and palm that rings out toward still-pouring water. This is the part where he laughs, exasperated, and Keith argues some arbitrary point about how much dirt the palace deposits on him at night anyway. Garrison days aside, there are lines here, but he waits, and Keith stills. _Fix this_ , that little voice begs when it shakes Shiro’s hand on the door.

“Look, I'm sorry,” Keith starts- it’s as far as he gets.

Four precise knocks come through the outer room’s door. They both take a sharp breath.

“Uh, guys...” Pidge’s voice floats through. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

 

 

 

Grotesque. It’s the only apt description of the message, sprawled in mud and blood and a dozen other things Keith couldn’t name. He isn’t sure what it says, exactly, but Pidge’s translation comes only moments after they all wonder, and then a collective glance toward him and Shiro once the information sinks in.

The Black Paladins, in exchange for a cease-fire and a healthy amount of the quintessence Lotor is so intent on obtaining. Agreeing to it is insane, of course, but the offer isn’t without its opportunities; if seized right, they could have unimpeded access to the central terrorist camp _and_ the methods for taking them down from the inside. Kolivan goes silent as soon as it’s pointed out. Pidge wonders aloud how someone had gotten into the palace to plant the message in the first place. After Ezor lets slip a noise that sounds vaguely like a laugh, Keith shoots a scandalized look at Lotor, gets merely a wink in return, and the group disperses after one of the Council informs them that new delegates will be arriving presently. He grabs Lotor’s collar before anyone notices them falling behind.

“It’s fake,” Lotor says, holding up his hands. “All of it.”

Ezor finally lets out a peal of laughter, and Axca sighs when Narti cocks her hip. “Yeah, yeah. No Jerekovians were harmed in the making of this set up. Now can we go?”

“What is it that Shiro is always hounding you to remember?” Lotor asks, and his teeth show. “Patience yields-”

Keith shoves him into the wall. Ezor continues to laugh and Zethrid jeers something in Galran he doesn’t catch over the scrape of Lotor’s longsword coming out of its sheath. “ _Maniac_ -” The blade hits the ground between their feet and with it, Keith’s choice in the matter. Lotor holds his hands up again, smile biting as if to say _my plans, your rules._ It won’t be the first time they’ve teamed up under the very agreement. Better than getting thrown into it blind like the others, at least. “Alright, spill. What’s your angle?”

“The same as before,” he says. “Infiltration, extraction, and now the ability to blame our departure on hunting down the mole that did this. We’ll have everyone’s approval like you wanted, and I’ll be out of your lives until the next crisis turns the tide of the war.”

“You want something.”

“I’ve wanted it since the beginning. Haven’t you been paying attention?”

“Don’t bullshit, Lotor, just- spit it out.”

Lotor’s mouth goes flat. He pushes Keith’s hands from his shoulders. “I want the quintessence. As much of it as you won’t destroy, knowing the ridiculously hypocritical moral code you Paladins hold yourselves to.” Keith’s expression must sour a bit more, because he adds, “oh, come on, it isn’t as if I’m asking for _Voltron_ anymore, or somebody’s kidney. Truly Keith, you might show a bit of gratitude. You’re getting the better bargain here.” He smacks his shoulder lightly upon passing and picks up his sword. “And Shiro will be none the wiser.”

“What about Kolivan?” Keith asks, because it’s the only thing that makes him stop.

“Oooh, not the ‘k’ word again,” Ezor hisses to Acxa, and Narti shoves her head back with one hand. “Hey!”

“Kolivan’s caution will be the reckoning of the Empire,” Lotor says harshly. “I admire the man’s conviction, but it’s less than conducive for this fight. We’re better off working together as little as possible.” Acxa coughs to conceal her noise of disbelief, and Keith may be hopeless when it comes to subtext, in many ways, but he’d have to be an idiot not to pick up the intent behind four disgruntled faces turned in his direction. Even Kova’s nose is scrunched in apparent annoyance. Jesus. And Keith thought _he_ had pushy teammates.

“Lotor,” he says, quieter in the attempt to make peace. The prince doesn’t turn back until Keith catches his arm, but loosely. “Look. Neither of us are happy with how this is going, but something doesn’t feel right. Someone else is after this quintessence. Maybe we should-”

The shove to his chest rattles him. Gone is every trace of patience or surety from Lotor’s face, replaced with the twist of a snarl and an intensity to his flashing eyes akin to lightning; sudden, unstable. Keith closes his mouth.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Lotor hisses, finger inches from Keith’s face, “ _touch me.”_

Zethrid, Acxa, Narti and Ezor each take a half-step back. Keith swallows. Lotor’s manic gaze pins him in place.

“I will do what I must to find the truth,” he says, icy. “Will you?”

 

 

 

Dreams of ink and crashing waves send him spinning from the blankets on the floor. Shiro pants, grasps at silky sheets that lay flat over Keith’s side of the bed and waits for sweat to cool from his back and collar before he decides it isn’t worth the trouble, and reaches back to pull his shirt over his head. The moons are high. White pools of light spill across too much of the room, and without thinking, Shiro hurls a tassled pillow against the headboard. Shit, he’s an idiot. He’s an idiot.

 _Where are you?_ Questions follow him through short sleeves of a new shirt and the encapsulating heat of stone corridors, but he’d have to be naive to think the answers within his grasp- or Keith. As soon as he comes to the balcony past high windows that color the ballroom silver, finds Kolivan and Matt looking out over the rail and the steps and the gardens below, their startled look evidence enough of further alliance discussion, he’s resigned himself to an early morning and his usual fate.

“Anything I should hear about?” he asks anyway, striding to Matt’s side.

“Matt and I have come to an understanding,” Kolivan answers. His knuckles are pale and his claws tap against the rail. “Regarding action in the name of progress rather than for the sake of caution.”

Shiro sets his forearms against coarse stone, and sighs. “Sounds pretty... final.”

“We think that moving on the mountains might be our best bet at this point,” Matt says, abrupt, and fiddles with his sleeves. “They may not have as many numbers as B3, but those guys are locked into the tunnels anyway, so it's really now or never."

“Allura wouldn’t like the sound of that,” Shiro mutters.

“Allura would not like many things war must demand of a political figure,” Kolivan answers. “It is what causes her to clash with Lotor so easily, yet a decision must be made. Tomorrow we approach the Council and request leave to take down the temporary station in the mountains." He pauses. "Do you stand with us, or do other reservations still hold your confidence?”

It isn’t unclear as to what he’s referring; there’s been an empty space beside Shiro since he rolled out of bed, and pretending the others don’t see it must look ridiculous. In Keith's absence, he feels like he's only speaking for half of himself. 

“I’m- with you,” he answers, after another minute and agonizing over dark bruises against pale skin, “but now that we know the B3 group is after me and Keith, I’m... not sure Allura would allow either of us to join the front lines. Don’t get me wrong- I’ll be out there in a heartbeat.” He shakes his head. “But the princess won't be as enthusiastic."

Kolivan stops fiddling with something in his hands, and Shiro only sees that it’s a willow stalk once he sets it down on the rail. “About that message we found in the palace; Holt and I have checked the grounds perimeter twice over, and the watchmen set up at the gardens’ broken wall, and it is an impossibility that anyone could have breached either.”

“An... inside job then?” Shiro asks, then turns more fully toward him. “Are you saying there’s a mole in the palace guard?”

“I’m saying there is no logical reason for the enemy to implant an operative -so completely undetected- only for the sake of delivering threats closer to home.”

Matt starts, “but who the hell would-?” and cuts himself off once Kolivan raises his brows. Shiro takes a long breath and mentally hits himself for not seeing it sooner. Matt puts a hand to his chin, then frowns. “Right. Okay, so... _Lotor_ planted the threat in the hopes that it would finally unite us against the terrorists, but- _why?_ What does he hope to accomplish by- making us hate the enemy just _that_ much more?”

“I have been asking myself the same, yet conclusion eludes grasp,” Kolivan says. “We can only assume his intent lies in acquiring the very quintessence the Princess is so dead set on destroying.” He trails off on a mutter and turns his eyes back down to the willow leaves he’s been folding and unfolding intermittently. Shiro wants to ask, but figures space warrants space, and keeps quiet. “I believe it has something to do with finding the truth about his mother, but the thought of such a power in his hands... I would sooner the alliance crumble than lose him to dashed hopes and abandoned peacemaking.” It’s more personal than he’s ever gotten with the two of them. Shiro exchanges a glance with Matt.

“I’ll talk to Keith,” he says. “He’ll know if Lotor’s plotting anything drastic.” That, or- have some idea of how to find out.

Matt nods, Kolivan releases a handful of crumpled leaves over the balcony’s edge, and Shiro strikes out for the med-wing as soon as early threads of decision root in his frayed nerves. There’s no telling whether Keith will even be there, but it’s the only place he can think to look. Barely ten minutes pass before he hits the lower floors. Walls blur into sameness. Torches throw grinning shapes at the point where ceilings intersect tapestries.

Shiro pauses at a rumble that echoes around emptiness and dark, barely causing enough of a rattle to be branded as shockwave- but noticeable. Doors slam and hinges squeak from the next floor down. It must be getting close to dawn.

He doesn’t know why he stops. When the next tremor slams the palace, he doesn’t know why he expects not to hit the ground.

 

 

 

They hear screams long before gardens end and stairs begin. Keith hits the last hundred feet on a sprint, blade activated, and jumps into the fight with the fervor of regret hot on his heels- there’s no excuse for thoughtlessness, and assuming the underground cells could withstand nature’s unpredictability was their first mistake. He reaches Matt first at the balcony, and Hunk where they stand back-to-back against four cloaked attackers.

“I think I speak for all of us when I say,” Matt pants, staff a whirl in his hands, “what the _actual fuck_ , Keith?” He kicks a Jerekovian over the rail and fends off the next. Dust erupts from tiny fissures and cracks in the stone, and chokes Keith to abandon words, though Axca shouts back an answer before anyone else can and it serves enough. She fires three times at the man swinging a pipe toward Hunk, beams flashing across silt that clears the air in their wake, then takes the metal from his hands, whacks him across the head with it and gives one more kick when he drops like a stone. Keith twists the arm of his target before bashing his temple with the hilt of his blade. Narti seizes the last by the throat.

“Where is Kolivan?” Lotor asks, sword point inches away from the stranger’s eye. A response of gasping laughter prompts him to demand, less controlled, “where is the other Galra?!”

Narti squeezes, and the laugh cuts out.

“Dude!” Hunk exclaims. “Moderation?”

“Results,” Zethrid says.

“ _Fun_ ,” Ezor confirms.

Keith scowls and grips Lotor’s raised arm, gets shaken off, but breathes a sigh of relief when the prince punches the Jerekovian’s lights out rather than inflict a worse fate. Hunk grabs Keith’s shoulder and rambles, “the quake, it cracked the barriers and they came for the Council- Allura locked in the meeting room- I- I couldn’t find Lance, I can’t find Pidge-”

“Hey, hey,” Keith interrupts, alarmed, “calm down. If they’re after the Council, the Queens must still be safe in the east wing- that’s probably where Lance and Pidge headed. Narti and Zethrid, take Hunk and get down there, the rest of us will cut off the main stairwell and get to Allura.”

“Aw, don’t make me go with him!” Zethrid complains, propping her rifle over her shoulder. “You and Lotor just want the good fights for yourselves.”

Ezor grabs her wrist. “Well if we go _with_ them, they won’t leave any for us, right?” She winks and turns Hunk around to start marching them in the right direction. “Don’t worry, I can hear some more screams over there!”

“We should rope off the rest in the lower floors before hitting the stairwell,” Matt says while they disappear. “The palace guard is spread too thin and half of my guys were in the city when shit went down-”

“Call them back and find the major general,” Keith tells him as they walk, tiles cracked and bits of shattered window crunching with every step, “get everyone out of harm’s way. Narti, Axca, help him keep the enemy back from the stairs while Lotor and I go up, then book it back to the gardens in case any more of B3 takes advantage of the militia’s absence. Lotor, you know Kolivan better than any of us- where would he have gone?” He looks from room to room, yellow gaze frantic as a cornered animal’s, and only turns back to Keith once the latter grabs his shoulder and stops him. “Lotor. _Hey_.”

“The meeting room,” Lotor finally says, “he- he must be there as well.” Keith nods, and they take off again for the stairs.

Fighting through the thick of it proves more grueling than before, but quicker- especially since the scene is contained to the middle section of a single castle rather than spread thin across several blocks of city. Some of the rooms catch fire or have already been consumed by licking reds, oranges and white as they pass; others have been blocked off by chunks of ceiling from the last tremor, but Keith notices both at a sort of distance through deafening clatters and clangs of sword on shield, and vice versa. If Kolivan is behind any of them, then at least he’s safer than they are.

Narti and Axca blast a path at the base of the grand stairs. From there, it’s a race to the top; dodging metal, kicking heads and arms that reach from behind and sweeping ankles or knees that turn on them from above. The higher they gain ground, the better, but it saps Keith’s strength fast. His legs burn by the time they stumble around the banister. He sucks air into screaming lungs. The taste of ash and plaster dust coats his mouth.

“There,” Lotor wheezes, and slows to a halt at the start of the (now aptly named) Death March corridor, where plumes of destruction escape like rolling fog over the frontal courtyard and further. Some of Matt’s people have begun streaming back through pillars and archways to join the fight. Corpses lay strewn over upsticking streaks of debris, mirrors to the ones concealing ruined marble which leads to the door, their destination. Lotor clears it in a jog, but something catches Keith’s eye further outside.

Violet cleaves night-dark figures that swarm the right courtyard. Bodies fall in its wake, most in more than two pieces, and against the burning shrubbery, they crumble like smashed stone. Keith rushes to the rail.

“Keith!” Lotor calls, Kolivan beside him as survivors stream from the war room to safety. Rust and razor corrupts his voice; he flexes his fingers and tears his gaze back toward the chaos. Pressure builds at the back of his eyes. He swears, and slams his hand against the wall, and runs toward the fight.

 

 

 

Shiro has taken down ten Galra by the time they corner him into a stone room. A kick to his back sends his ribs slamming into the floor, his jaw snaps shut, blood fills his mouth; he spits and rises, but the boot remains between his shoulders and presses him down again. Across the floor stand both Queens, seemingly unharmed, but shaken- and cuffed. Another slaps around Shiro’s metal wrist. Blue arcs of electricity shock it down to the stump and keep his forearm magnetized to the floor.

“You’ve caused us a deal of trouble, Champion,” says an inhuman, gravel-laced voice.

 _Fuck_.

Macidus lets off and his guards pin Shiro while he moves past them. Noise swells and detonates steadily in the distance, sending quakes through the low ceiling and fissures into clay-brick walls. Shiro spits sand at the druid’s feet; the whole damn mountain might be breaking apart, or maybe it was their plan all along.

“The unfinished quintessence-” he says, and inhales a lungful of silt. “You made a deal with the terrorists-”

“Yes,” Macidus says, dark and simple. He paces, measured, hands clasped behind him- waiting. For Shiro to attack? For the Queens to speak? “Tear down the Mainland in exchange for their quintessence.”

“Why?” Shiro asks, because being unable to tell who’s stalling is usually a sign that someone should make use of the pause. Macidus chuckles and stops beside a great slab of obsidian stone, unhurried. He unlocks something; Shiro jerks against more pressure applied to his throbbing shoulder, but it’s to no avail, and the druid only looks back as blood droplets patter in off-beat flicks into the dust. One of the Queens gives a loud growl and the other protests in Jerekovian. Shiro finally sees the syringe, hears a scuffle from the left door, and decides he couldn’t give less of a _fuck_ about this bastard’s motive once Keith _whams_ to the ground at his feet.

Macidus grins. All the lines of his ugly face twist, and once he sees that Keith stays motionless, shivering, he sets the needle down.

Shiro puts two and two together. Rage bleeds into horror. “No- _no_ , don’t do this to him-”

“It is already done,” Macidus interrupts, soft, but the perpetual low-filled-chasm sound to his voice turns it crueler. Shiro twists his shoulder and strains against the force field. Cobalt buzzes across its metallic captive with lightning mercilessness. Damn it. Goddamn it. Macidus curls his fingers into Keith’s bangs and says, still in that off-quiet way, “we will have the truth one way or another.”

“That’s enough,” one of the Queens says, abruptly, though the other hisses something and tries to step in front of her. “No- _no_ , I’ve had enough, I refuse to bend to the will of these archaic laws and a primeval judicial system! Let them _go_ -”

“And deny you the knowledge of an alliance built on lies?” Macidus says with a dangerous edge. It sharpens when he demands, “ruin the perfect facade these _defenders_ of the universe have sold you? No. Tell them,” he pauses to turn Keith’s head toward the still-full syringe, then back to Shiro, “what you call this man.”

The Queens shift and turn their heads from druid to Paladin to druid and back again, Shiro freezes, silence presses in at every side in an unbearable ring, and Keith takes a breath that turns into a sharp gasp. He struggles, visibly, and his eyes squeeze shut, but there's only so much they can do against magic.

"Shiro," he says in a rush, caving. "The Black Paladin."

Macidus grins that horrible grin again. The Queens pale, exchange a look of realization, and that’s it, Shiro thinks it’s over-

" _Shiro_ ," Keith says, and his face screws up with horror when words start to slip out, rapid, breathless- "mentor, leader, f- family-”

"Keith," he starts, but gets no further.

"Teammate, companion, b-brother," Keith says. He blinks rapidly. His voice roughens like when he’s upset, when he’s in pain. "Friend -Shiro, I can't- can't make it stop, Shiro-” the last bit cracks.

“Keith!”

Macidus watches, entertained, then says something too quiet for Shiro to hear. What little blood remains in Keith’s face drains. The fingers in his hair tighten, but he pants and fixes his eyes somewhere in the distance, stubborn to the end; pride rips through Shiro and the last of his composure slips. Blue sparks flare white around his arm. Macidus remains absorbed in how Keith grinds his jaw and screws his eyes shut, tortured, like the moment quintessence takes his control will haunt him. Violet covers the edges of Shiro’s vision.

Later, and for a sliver of the present, he knows it will haunt him. Keith, bloody on the ground, Keith with a hand wrapped around his throat- it’s an image from two dozen nightmares where Shiro loses everything. He’s looked death head-on. They both have, but no amount of close calls or arena matches comes close to this kind of fear.

“A s-secret,” Keith breathes, through undercurrents of agony. His eyes open and lock onto Shiro like he’ll fall apart if they’re anywhere else.

Macidus waits. Shiro’s arm sizzles through the inside of the cuff.

“Naxzela,” Keith says- sobs.

Everything goes red for twelve seconds.

“Pathetic,” mutters the druid, and he slams Keith’s head into the ground. Shiro’s cuff melts, then the hands grabbing his arm down melt, the throat he digs his fingers through _melts_ \- Keith’s been playing it down, because he’s the only one that can, but Shiro is intimately aware of the damage he is capable of.

Macidus, ultimately, proves not.

 

 

 

Shiro isn’t a clean killer. Wails and chokes and awful, cracking snaps ping from crumbling walls and overlap in crescendo shrieks that go on, and on. Kolivan sprints after Lotor through another shaky corridor. Live pain takes on ripples of soundwaves that crawl for his throat. His boots slap a sticky, gritty layer of soot-blood-straw while dust swirls in hazy eddies along cracked edges of gray-plaster trim. Something skitters behind them. Cold seeps from the concrete cage into his arms, torso, through armor.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts. Ten minutes, maybe barely just- enough that they’ve been running even after a last shattered scream cut out and faded. The room they come to is dark, close to the surface. A case with two velvet indents, one filled by a single syringe of shining, blue quintessence sits discarded at the base of a black boulder, all but painted in ribbons of pink and flesh; none of it strikes Kolivan as Keith’s style, but he’s been wrong. Burnt shackles explain the Queens’ voices a few doors down, and the team’s. What catches his eye is the blue sheen to one pair of blood streaks.

“No,” Lotor says at the door, ajar, bloody handprint like a beacon- or a warning. “No, do you think they-”

Kolivan makes for the door. His chest tightens, his throat gains a lump like he’d swallowed sugar and coal and condenses them into diamonds to spew out later, he counts similarities after hinges screech and expel them onto the ruined courtyard; jagged stones predict condemnation, strewn leaves reflect the paperwork Allura will scatter and silver drips of stars suggest that their spilled blood was in vain, moist air sits across the field where he watched Shiro get dragged under not half an hour ago, and echoes the weight of disappointment. So crushing, an inconsistency to the burn of rage that rises at the sight of Keith curled in Shiro’s arms. Broken. Not dead, and not simply hurt, but-

“They gave it to him,” Lotor finishes, and draws in a breath. Kolivan can’t seem to catch his.

Shiro looks up. Not even armored, barely dressed, but hostile like their conversation an hour ago means nothing now- Kolivan supposes that it doesn’t. He starts to approach before matching shouts precede another shriek of hinges, and Matt, Allura and the Queens storm through ruined neutral ground, dirt and soot-streaked. The princess wastes no time in grabbing Lotor by the collar and slamming him against the nearest tree so hard that he gasps.

Her voice betrays nothing but rage. “You have put my team in jeopardy. You have put this _alliance_ in jeopardy-”

“I did what needed to be done,” he appeals, hoarse. “Did I not warn you of this? Did I not say that the longer you waited, the more risk you invited?”

“We weren’t the ones that went out and poked the fucking bear, Lotor!” Matt answers. “And especially not alone- you did that yourself.”

Kolivan steps closer as more voices rise from the door. The combined team floods the courtyard, royals in tow, all looking worse for wear.

Allura abandons Lotor to confront the generals. “And you, you went along with this, you betrayed us- all for _what_?”

“Allura,” Hunk starts.

She blazes on. “For a fight? Is this what you wanted?”

Lotor follows in losing control of his accusations. “Do not bring them into this, or unless you’d like me to point out that your Paladins have put in half the work that my team has-”

“For a madman’s fantasy!” she shouts.

“This _war_ is a madman’s fantasy!” Lotor bellows back, cracked. Desperate.

Silence falls. Kolivan blinks, grip loosening on his blade, and blinks some more before the involuntary knit of his brows forces his eyes shut. When he opens them again, Allura’s fury has fizzled out and died like the remnants of sparks littering the grounds, and she covers her eyes with one hand as failure begins to set in. Kolivan’s throat tightens; he knows her pain. All of this, for nothing, and there’s only one thing Macidus could have wanted with Keith, the Queens, and a syringe of truth quintessence in the same room. It shouldn’t have taken him so long to consider the druid for an enemy.

Behind them, Keith makes a soft, pained noise. He doesn’t turn in Shiro’s lap, across his knees, but a shiver runs through the torn Blade suit on his back. Kolivan forces his feet not to run to the sound of someone so dear that he’d written off as safe; the first of many, many mistakes he begins to see.

Lotor is right.

Only a madman could champion detachment while allowing friends to suffer.

“I cannot-” Lotor says, rough, and paces as he rips open a pouch from his belt. “I cannot stand this any longer-”

Kolivan catches the stolen syringe in his hand too late. By the time he’s shouted and lunged, the quintessence has already sunken in with the needle under Lotor’s jaw, and there’s nothing the rest of them can do but still, mid panic, and watch it take effect before they remember to breathe again. The syringe slips into free-fall, a blip before it shatters across concrete. Lotor claps his hand over the side of his neck. His face screws up in discomfort. Kolivan grips his shoulders and breaks a little more.

The prince takes a shuddering breath. “All that I wanted- all I wanted was to _help_.” He shakes. “To prove to you all that I am better than my father.”

“Highness,” Kolivan pleads. “You do not have to-”

“But I see now,” he interrupts, with an edge of pain. “I was wrong- to put everyone in danger, I was wrong to allow an _obsession_ to consume me, I- there is no excuse for what I’ve done.” His voice wavers. His eyes grow wet, and he grasps Kolivan’s arm, drops his head. “Macidus is dead. My only lead... my last chance. I have wasted your trust for a knowledge that no longer exists.”

Kolivan touches the side of his head. The silence grows thick, and pressing.

“I am sorry,” Lotor says, the barest of whispers. “I am truly, truly sorry.”

He isn’t the only one.

“There is something I need to tell you,” Kolivan says, at last.

 

 

 

The second time Keith wakes in a hospital bed is worse. He aches. A sledgehammer pounds the inside of his skull, and it feels as though a dozen blood vessels have tightened below his temples. He searches the sheets to his left, then his right- the room spins and doesn’t stop, but there’s a familiar hand to grip after he shifts loud enough. Another covers his head and slides over his ear, metal. He slips under again.

Waking next, it’s to Pidge and Ezor arguing about invisibility physics, which seems more like what he expected. Lance shuffles what sounds like cards while Hunk grumbles over losing, and sure enough- when he opens his eyes, the sheets bunched over his ribs have been converted into table space.

“Classic,” he says, or rather, rasps. Something must’ve crawled into his throat and died while he was out, but a quick assessments suggests that’s the extent to his injuries.

Immediately, the cards go flying, a scatter of black, white and red and any other time, he’d make a joke about how they match, but the arms thrown around him effectively cut off what little breath he has left in him. Someone squeals (probably Ezor) and another squeezes his calf (Narti) and two more pairs of stomps and shouts precede Acxa and Zethrid’s crushing hugs. Keith wheezes. Pidge scolds. Hunk cries. The nurse nearly has a heart attack.

Even after everyone’s gotten in a solid seven minutes of fussing and robbing Keith’s lungs of air, no one lets go. He wants to ask about the fight, whether everyone’s okay or how they are if they’re not, but judging from the brief-but-genuine sobriety it’s not a question he doesn’t already know the answer to. Eventually the intense concern wears off.

“Did we win?” Keith asks, as soon as the teams draw back and he can breathe again.

Matt ruffles his hair, huffs. “Yeah, man.” He shakes his head. “Yeah, we won.” Firm agreement goes up from the rest of the party, but Shiro’s unabashed smile catches Keith’s attention and holds it. There’s a cut down his cheek, almost healed, but dark marks under his eyes and plaster dust still in his hair, his rumpled clothes. He squeezes Keith’s hand, and thumbs at his jaw. Something Keith didn’t know had gripped the inside of his chest begins to loosen.

A door bangs open from the end of the room, and both Queens and Council hurry in. Oh, _shit_.

“Easy,” Shiro says. His hand falls away. “We called a truce.”

“Truces don’t apply to the half-dead,” Keith mutters back, but he cans it as soon as the party slows to gather around the bedside.

They explain to him what had happened after the fight. Lotor’s confession, the non-defeat but non-victory they’d found on their hands after such a convoluted build to defense, how if Matt’s forces hadn’t been there, there wouldn’t be an alliance to consider at all. What was left of B3 and D1 disappeared into the mountains, and the freshly christened militia already plans to move to exterminate the rebellion for good. The generals get a kick out of this for whatever reason.

Keith manages to focus on enough of the information dump that the overall message sticks: they really did win. It’s just the _how_ that he’s afraid to question.

“Your lie could not be counted against you,” one of the Queens explains, toward the end. She folds her hands in front of her and sighs. “To say that, ignoring our own history with omitting certain facts about Jerekov would be... disingenuous.”

The other looks between Shiro and Keith, and says nothing, but her eyes linger on their joined hands.

It’s nearly midnight by the time he’s released. The generals say their goodnights first -absent Lotor, who Keith imagines is either deep in a much needed conversation with Kolivan, or brooding- and the Paladins take off after walking him back to the suite floor, catching him up on Coalition shenanigans all the way. Apparently some of the Board, upon learning about the fake marriage, had misunderstood and began to plan a renewal of vows under the supervision of some relationship counselor who’d tin-hatted the whole thing as a disaster from day one. Shiro’s shoulders shake with contained chuckles when he sees Keith’s face after telling him this. The others aren’t so courteous.

They come to their rooms and part with the others, and then Shiro and Keith are alone. Blankets on the floor. Bed unmade. Fire low like nothing is changed.

“You need a bath,” Shiro says, tugging Keith’s bangs.

“You need one more,” Keith says, because he does- and that’s how they both end up in the tub.

It isn’t awkward, like he thought it might be; they talk about nothing, and something, and something else, but it isn’t them. Keith scrubs the already fading scars from a dozen nicks and scrapes that’d been lathered in foul smelling antiseptic, Shiro pours water over his head to get the dust out and shakes like a dog and laughs when his bangs stick over one eye, at ease, like it’s all fine. Keith half-wants it to stay just like this. Comfortable quiet. Three feet of water between them, almost enough.

Shiro pauses, hand flat to his crown after pushing his hair back, and eyes the tags around Keith’s neck. He smiles. “Guess it’s too late to ask for those back, huh?”

Keith tries not to let on that even the idea disappoints him. He props his arms on the tub edge and wonders why. “Unless you give mine over.”

Water slops the faucet when Shiro moves to bracket him in, hands on either side of Keith. “One of each, then. It’ll drive the Coalition nuts.”

They both laugh. The lines around Shiro’s eyes don’t disappear, but he looks younger, somehow, content. Keith memorizes the sound of his happiness and tries to tuck it around himself, less like the mask it used to be at the Garrison and more like a blanket. Rugged, worn in some places- just the right ones. Something to curl under on lonely nights and pretend with.

His studying outlasts his smile, then Shiro’s.

The water settles.

The longing stings.

“I,” Shiro starts, sober. “The underground... when Macidus was...”

Keith swallows. Either he’s going to ask or he isn’t, but either way, Keith is starting to see that things can’t go on the way they used to.

“I don’t regret killing him,” Shiro finishes, quieter.

Neither of them speak for a minute. Relief curls around the part of Keith that would otherwise flood with a very specific type of concern, soothes a fear he’d be afraid to voice otherwise. Shiro doesn’t blame him. Shiro made his own decision, regardless of anything that could have forced his hand. Keith takes his arms off the tub’s edge. “What I said back there-”

“You don’t have to- explain,” Shiro interrupts, gently. “You don’t- owe me that, I just... I want you to know.” He hesitates. “I meant what I said in the gardens, Keith. You’ve always been there, for me, after everything-” another catch, and it’s fitting together like clockwork. His voice takes on a vulnerable tint that makes Keith want to throw both arms around him and _hold_. “If anyone hurts you like that again- I don’t care how many alliances it could cost us. I can’t lose you.” One last crack. “I won’t.”

They’re too close. Shiro’s breath is warm on his nose.

“You mean that?” Keith asks, after a minute of searching. The ache transforms into half anticipation, half too-much-too-soon-just-enough and his heart bangs against his chest in due response.

“I do,” Shiro says, terribly earnest.

Steam dissipates in the three inches separating them. Shiro still has Keith closed in between his arms.

He makes a move first; slow, easy, then again. Firmer when Keith pushes into the kiss with a quiet sound and palms on his arms, adrenaline in spikes, blood in a rush. Shiro breathes in sharp and grasps either side of his head and that’s it, he’s gone on the give and take, and the rise and fall and the way Shiro’s fingers hook in the damn tags like he wants to press their marks into Keith’s chest. He breathes hard when they break off. Keith opens his eyes just to see his flush, how undone he’s starting to come, just from that- no one else gets to know that. Not like this.

“It was like he reached into my head,” Keith whispers, “and just ripped things out.”

Shiro swears, soft.

“Keith,” he says, on the verge of- something. Another swear, or tears, or it doesn’t matter because he kisses Keith again, hard. “Fuck, _Keith_.” It’s not hard to melt into it; to drag Shiro into his space, push one flesh and one metal hand down his chest, and lower. Heat ties knots in his gut. The want that’s been biting at his heels for weeks sings through his skin, rolls out everything else.

For once, he doesn’t think about beds or alliances or whispers about broken men. He doesn’t think about the fight.

He doesn’t think about anything at all.

 

 

 

The palace looks washed out from the launch pad. A dozen or so rooms were dented in and collapsed from the inside in the last quake, and two tremors followed before the ground gave its last trembling, then subsided. Steam mists from broken roof tiles. Evening sun glints and bounces from steel reinforcement beams and ladders tipped precariously against the second and third story windows- it throws piles of broken pieces into ginger-coral relief, and shadows like raspberry ink behind them where the dirt’s been churned up. The team wastes time comparing colors while the pods power up.

“You really think this place is gonna be okay?” Hunk asks, during a lull in the conversation.

Pidge _pshaw’s_ and kicks her legs from a seat of souvenir crates, courtesy of Lance. “Trust me, compared to some of the other planets we’ve passed over, this one is golden. Uh- literally.” The others laugh. Keith shoves his hands in his pockets and leans back beside her, hair bathed the same magenta wine that Acxa ascribed darkening mountains to a few minutes before. He catches Shiro looking and grins, red, then ducks his head when Shiro smiles back.

“Gotta admit, I am gonna miss the love,” Lance sighs.

“Gonna miss the entire palace available to entertain you,” Pidge shoots back without malice. He sticks out his lower lip. She ruffles his hair and laughs.

Allura, who’s been quiet since they began packing up, folds her hands in front of herself and stops pacing. “I am concerned with the state we are leaving them in, but I agree... it is time to go. There are- some things Voltron is simply not needed to fix.”

“Yeah, I’d rather not have to climb up those ladders either,” Hunk agrees with a shiver.

Conversation goes on hold while Lotor’s ship clears the palace, curves over the right grounds and hovers with a rushing wind over the connected platform. Shiro holds his hand up to his eyes. Acxa holds up hers to direct the landing, and before two minutes pass, the engines run quiet as the bay door opens to reveal the prince. He emerges through the remaining wisps of blood-orange and begins his goodbye’s with Allura, who seems rather surprised at the offer, but shakes his hand. Coran follows suit before the two are tackled into Zethrid’s brief (but enthusiastic) hug. From there, the entire team latches into groups and cycles through with no small amount of chatter.

“Why are _we_ hugging?” Shiro asks Hunk after falling prey to a sneak attack. “I’m gonna see you again tomorrow!”

“Oh, man,” Hunk sniffs. “I’m just glad we’re finally done with this alliance.” And- yeah, he can get behind that sentiment.

Acxa punches his shoulder for a turn, then squeezes it when she pulls back. “Don’t do anything dumb while we’re gone.”

“Yes ma’am,” Shiro answers, and she punches him again, but she also hugs him again. Ezor squawks something about being left out before she and Narti join in, scribbling down hasty comm line codes that they’ve already given him five times. Kova clings, full bodied, to his pant leg and yowls loudly at any attempt to pry him off. Eventually Narti tugs him away by the scruff of his neck. Zethrid tells him to meet her behind Vrepit Sal’s if they ever want to settle beef for the Coalition by proxy, so he agrees on the principle of never turning down an out, even if he regrets it five seconds after she slaps him on the back so hard that his breath escapes in a wheeze.

When Lotor approaches, silence telling, Shiro and Keith step away from the group.

“We are always on call,” he says, quietly. “Any time the Coalition requires unconventional assistance.”

Shiro offers his hand, hesitant as he was to forgive at first; people aren't two dimensional, and no one was more proof of that after Lotor gave himself up. His eyes widen at the gesture, but he takes it. Keith grips his elbows, looks hard at him for a moment and wraps both arms around his back before he speaks. “Whatever family you wanna go look for,” he nods toward the Paladins and rebels, Blades and others, “we’re here if you need us.”

It means a lot to him; Shiro can tell. They break apart, and Lotor blinks several times before answering, “thank you, Keith. I- thank you.”

“Now get moving.” Keith pushes him lightly toward where Kolivan stands, waiting. “I’m sure there’s some mission he has for you on the way out.” Lotor chuckles.

They watch the brief, surely awkward exchange, and the decidedly less so embrace that follows. Kolivan grips the back of Lotor’s neck and keeps their heads together while he imparts a few more words- Shiro doesn’t think he’s ever seen the Blade more talkative than the past five days, but Keith seems satisfied, so they turn away.

Greens and blues light up over the pods once Coran gets them up and running, a promise of Castle grays and Altean goo that, oddly enough, Shiro’s begun to miss. Dusk races the edge of the mountains and sweeps the sky into smoky magma, the stars into opalescent pinpoints, the launch site into glowing rings that blink in and out as takeoff nears while shadows that have steadily lengthened begin to disappear into the oncoming flood of night that raises a dozen various chirps, hoots, trills and howls from the woods and marigold, topaz, copper lights from the city. Despite everything, it lives. It breathes.

At least he’s discovered one thing he has in common with the Jerekovians.

“What?” Keith asks, at Shiro's close-mouthed laugh. He just shakes his head, and wraps one arm around Keith’s shoulders.

They remain at the edge of the launch pad until Lotor’s ship ascends skyward, then rockets through the stratosphere and into space. A last call rings from the pods.

“Let’s call it a night, Shiro,” Keith says eventually.

He nods. Lotor's ship vanishes in a burst of blue, and they leave the platform, nothing left unsaid.

**Author's Note:**

> here is my [tumblr](https://hazelnatcoffee.tumblr.com) which I use more often and here is my [twitter](https://twitter.com/HazelMusings) which I'm like never on, but I've started to link on principle lol
> 
> big thanks to everyone who requested a sequel to Wildfire; this was hands down my favorite fic to ever write and I'm super grateful to everyone who waited so long :)


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